Marion's War Diaries
by peace and joyce
Summary: "You want to know how I'm still alive? Or why? Every day I've had I've fought for! Because every day is live is another small victory for me, it's another day he hasn't got me. I'm an emaciated bitter sociopath, but don't count me out!"
1. Overview

"_There is reason in her head and passion in her heart. She is a true witch indeed."_

Albus Dumbledore in 1996, referring to his adopted daughter, Marion Popyngcart

MARION ANN RUTH POPYNGCART

Born c. 1983/4

Marion Popyngcart is one of the controversial figures of modern wizarding history, and a contradiction to one of its most deep-founded stereotypes.

There were five Rowle children, however we know the stories of only two: Marion (b.1983/4) and her older sister Joan (b.1972). What we do know is that Joan was the eldest, with two younger brothers and another sister. However the boys and the girl apart from Joan and Marion died in infancy. These traumas had a deep effect on their distraught mother, Adina Popyngcart but we do not know Thorfinn Rowle's reaction to his children's deaths.

BACK STORY

For the first six years of her life, Marion and Joan suffered physical and verbal abuse: serious enough to send the young Marion into a three-day coma on two occasions. Joan made numerous appeals to the Ministry of Magic once she had started at Hogwarts, however the claims were not looked into on the grounds that Joan could not prove her sister existed because the lack of a birth certificate. Adina did nothing to prevent her children's suffering. Adina was proven, posthumously to have been a victim of domestic violence.

NEGLECT

Notable signs of neglect became visible in Marion later on: her growth was slow and stopped before she had reached maturity and she was prone to dizziness and fainting. This state of near-emaciation would later be a critical flaw.

MURDER

Marion's first exposure to life outside of north Yorkshire was, tragically in May 1990. On the 6th May 1990 (Joan's 18th birthday) Adina was murdered by her husband in front of her own children. After the murder of his wife, Rowle turned on his children and they were forced to flee.

Having arrived at the Ministry of Magic, the sisters were faced by the might of a full and unsympathetic criminal court. Though Joan could speak fluent English (having been educated at Hogwarts) Marion spoke poor English and the court did not understand her Welsh and refused an interpreter.

PREJUDICE

Opinions of suspected Death Eaters and their families varied. The Malfoys and the Blacks were respected and held many important positions, but the Rowle Death Eaters were brawny and had no charm. Fearing that the children would go the same way as their father, goaded by Umbridge and naively advised by Crouch senior, Fudge allowed prejudice to get the better of him. Joan was forced to train to become an Auror, and Marion was sent to live in the care of Albus Dumbledore for three years, after which time she was to join the ranks of the "work experience". Rowle was caught less than a month later and was imprisoned for life.

WORK EXPERIENCE & THE CHILD AURORS

In the Muggle world, work experience is harmless: there are regulations and restrictions on work hours and safety. However, in the wizarding world, work experience was a cover for child exploitation, as Marion would learn. The vast majority of the wizarding world and the Ministry (even Ministers Millicent Bagnold, Cornelius Fudge and Rufus Scrimgeour) were ignorant as to its true purpose and the real number of workers, due to propaganda and cover ups. In 1996, a survey showed that one in five wizarding children were in servitude. During the Death Eater's control of the Ministry 1997-98, this quickly turned into one in three.

The scheme was masterminded by Dolores Umbridge as a way of keeping "unsuitable" (such as werewolves, squibs or giants) out of the work, cutting the wage budget and maintaining the workforce. Child workers fought in both wizarding wars were not eligible for pensions throughout their first 15 years of work. They were kept away from public view; despite having a background job in almost every department: 75% of child workers had no contact with the public. And yet there were children working on the maintenance of the Floo Network, in manufacturing (from Chocolate Frogs to Madame Malkin's Robes) and 230 children worked in Knockturn Alley. Out of Borgin and Burkes' 32 employees, 27 were under 17. 68% of child workers were illiterate.

The under 17 workforce were not allowed senior managerial positions, could not enter politics, had no vote or say in government and were not legally allowed to earn more than 25,000 British pounds per year. And yet you could not do business and not come across a wizarding company that used child labour.

And yet 86% of wizarding adults approved of the system. Because the Daily Prophet supported it: it was an idea to "rehabilitate disadvantaged or abused children and provide helpful work experience through practical education."

A NEW FAMILY, A NEW START

In September 1990, Marion joined Hogwarts and was privately tutored by Dumbledore in preparation for joining the Child Auror Service. Thanks to her sharp mind and natural magical talents, she learned quickly and skilfully. She could read and write in two languages, conjure a Patronus, duel, argue and debate, plot and scheme, charm, keep magical plants and concoct difficult potions. This brief education empowered Marion like no other child worker. Her education allowed her to speak up and speak out.

Meanwhile, Joan was in love. His name was Tom Stanley, who worked with Ludo Bagman. They married in May 1994, and bought a gabled house in the little town of Tetreton-en-Fayre, in Kent, the home of his childhood with his sister, Araminta Stafford (nee Stanley).

For a while they were happy, and Marion found in Tom a brother and a friend.

TRAGEDY STRIKES

A keen Quidditch fan, Tom invited Marion to join him and Joan on a trip to see the 422nd Quidditch World Cup on the 22nd August 1994. However, a disaster happened when the event turned into a full-scale Death Eater riot. Whilst trying to protect some young Muggle children, Tom was attacked. This horrific night became famous in Marion's memory: her first encounter with the Sectumsempra Curse. Unknown to the Death Eater, Tom was a haemophiliac. The wounds could not be healed quickly enough and Tom bled to death.

The next day, 23rd August 1994, Joan discovered she was pregnant with Tom's child. Despite Tom's earlier plan to keep Marion out of danger, she was forced to return to work to provide for Joan and her baby as the Ministry's planned maternity leave was void to Joan as the father was dead. Therefore Joan was on unpaid maternity leave.

It is on this note that Marion brings her diary. The diary is unabridged (though translated from Welsh) and naturally her spelling and other linguistic errors have been corrected.

WHO WAS SHE REALLY?

Sources that knew Marion paint a variety of portraits of her, and the result is a very conflicting picture. Maybe it was just the way that she was: independent, irreverent and spirited that meant people saw her different ways, hence the various opinions. Nobody could be sure who she was really was.

She was slender and graceful.

She was shrewish and emaciated.

She had a beautiful smile.

Her eyes were grey and cold.

She was honest and generous with her time.

She was a calculating schemer.

She was naive and a gossip.

She was wise and noble.

She was foolish, irreverent and faithless.

She was deceptive.

She was witty and clever.

She was ignorant and ill-educated.

She was shamelessly blunt.

She was idealistic. She was cunning. She was devious.

She had a plain face and bad teeth. She was like a spider. She was lovable. The entire Ministry was afraid of her. Impossible.

Perhaps the only way to judge her is to read her story. Maybe the one way to know her is to meet her, to see her life through her eyes. Only then can we judge her and discover the true story of a victimized, spirited and indomitable witch.


	2. Sweetness Dear

**Marion's War Diaries**

**Volume I**

**June 1995- May 1996**

**June 1995**

_24__th__ June 1995_

Curious things; people. We can be them our whole lives and still not understand them. They intrigue us, baffle us, and challenge us. One preconception whipped away in a momentary action. Each one different, but in many ways the same. They can be lovable; they can be despicable. Capable of actions that phenomenally clever, innovative, futile- or maybe some actions that can only be described as phenomenally stupid. Sometimes I could not tell the difference.

And this is how my diary starts; to try to understand human nature, and my place in it. And failing epically; like almost everything else I do.

So I am suspended with my environments, banished and alone.

It was half past six, a Healer having been summoned somewhere around six o'clock and my displacement at my sister's side happening almost immediately- the very moment Joan had gone up to her room, blissfully only one set of stairs. It was the Healer who wanted me out, ousting me with the words: "It's not a sight for little girls to see."

I was hard pressed not to roll my eyes. I am eleven years old (or thereabouts) I have seen death, known death, heard death and practiced death. I have seen torture, grief, betrayal and yet more death. But these are mere trifles compared to my sister going into labour.

After this chiding, I cannot help but to allow myself to become irritable.

"What am I to do?"

The Healer is perplexed: we don't know each other (clearly) and so she is not accustomed to my habits. Joan asks me, in Welsh:

"Why not work on _La Duchesse De La Bourgeoisie?" _(The latest of my painting projects.)

I shake my head. No can do. My last free weekend was jolly well ruined by her endless complaints of: "You haven't done my nose right! It's supposed to be curved at the tip, not hooked!" and "You idiot! My wreath of flowers is wonky!" or maybe "My arms aren't symmetrical! My left is bigger than my right!" At which I point out: "That's because of the perspective. You are tilted to the right so the viewer will see more of your left side than your right, which is in shadow." Honestly. Perhaps I should have painted her mouth last. Or maybe even better, not painted it all.

But then, I can't really complain about La Duchesse because that's the way I made her. She was inspired by the Fat Lady at Hogwarts (though I'd never tell her that) and I wanted to make a picture of grandeur, opulence and extravagant beauty- like the kind the Renaissance created. What I got was a frumpy nagging aristocrat- but I love her anyway. Or at least, I try to tell myself that when she annoys me. Yes, she's a pain, but I can't bring myself to chuck her out. Mayhap she reminds me of myself.

Exasperated by my youthful obstinacy, Joan rifles through her bedside table and brings out this book and a grey goose quill with a little pot of matching ink. And what a notebook it is too! Crushed deep green velvet with little stars- pale gold sewn on with a wiry thread that is worn in places. The pages are soft and cream with age; it's almost a shame to write on them. Almost, for I do love to write and I feel wonderfully serene like this, a heroine from a romance indeed.

The late night light is glinting off of the white lilies that grow by the river that runs past this house, this house on the hill. I feel alive in this midnight garden; the wet grass, the daisies the willow tree that weeps its garlands into the flowing water of the dell. The rocks that glint with a stern mystery, it's all a part of me. Why not start this diary with the things that I love?

Nature is the most beautiful; because it holds the essence of beauty, from which all things of beauty are derived. For beauty is in the eye of the beholder (those are not my words, 'tis true, but poignant all the same) and we are both viewers and participants in the nature of things. Nature is perfect because it is imperfect. O, for the solitudes of the countryside! There are the exquisites of the meadows in the wildflowers and trees, finest details and pleasance. But there is a noble glory in the flat plains and rolling downs and in the mighty stone plinths of Stonehenge. When there is emptiness and loneliness: where there is but land and man and sky. That is the simplicities of the universe and sometimes we are so absorbed in the complexities of our lives, we forget what there is to enjoy in just the existence of existences, ruled by everything and nothing, just the bareness and emptiness of beauty. And we can revel in it, if only in silence. Such are the wonders of nature, and the way that we became who we are, and found our place and our identity in nature.

There's little room in my life for sentimentality, so I spend it here. Alone with my silent nodding flowers, with all the world at peace, unified for once in its turning twenty-four hour frenzies.

As in so many ways, pain and suffering twist my outlook; with a scream. It's my name.

"Marion! Marion!"

My sister needs me. Urgently. I must go to her!

"Can I have a drink? And maybe a snack?"

Maybe not quite so urgently as I thought.

I budge open the back door that lead into the kitchen, illuminated by shafts of summer moonlight. I smile up at the flawed gem. I could just spend hours merely watching its glow.

And then I tug the deflowered curtains over its sight. Time is of the essence; I can't have it distracting me.

I pour, by hand, a glass of redcurrant juice for myself and some strange Muggle stuff called "squash" for Joan. My brother-in-law loved this stuff. His sister can't have it though, it makes her hyper. Not that anyone can imagine Minty [Araminta Stafford] hyper.

I fetch some digestives. The pain must have eased off by now, because I can't hear any noise.

I attempt to enter Joanie's room, but the Healer is blocking my way. On an ordinary day, I would be able to balance en pointe and see over her shoulder. However this one is six foot three and I am struggling to reach four foot three.

So it's a fail.

I roll my eyes and stroll down the corridor, sticking my tongue out grumpily at the flower fairies on the hanging china plates. They are laughing at me. I plonk myself down on a pouffe next to the window and pull out my well-thumbed Witch Weekly. Yes, it is six weeks out of date.

On the front cover is about check out Cornelius' hat collection. He's got that lime bowler hat on that he loves so much. I think I should keep a separate journal just so that I can mark the days we wears that stupid thing.

Page ten is the double spread of fashion; I look over the smart day robes, aprons patterned with cauldrons and romantic dress robes. None of them really interest me. No point buying them, they never come in my size. It's difficult enough being fitted at Madame Malkin's. She thinks that just because you're a child you are automatically some kind of live pin cushion.

And so, complaining loudly that the clothes are completely the wrong colour, much to the outrage of the models. I turn back to page 8, my favourite; the book list. I love books so much. Madame Pince got sick of me at Hogwarts, said I lived in the library. I'm quite a fast reader; I had an obsessive moment once where I read Gone with the Wind in one day. And I loved every single one of its 900 plus pages.

I have to smile when I come to my favourite part of my favourite section. Lovingly outlined in iridescent blue ink is a special edition of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, remastered in the original. It's a pale blue book with fancy fancy gold edging.

I love my own copy, a second-hand pink paperback with good illustrations and some very amusing graffiti from the previous owner, but the book in the magazine is beautiful, smooth and new and neat. Night black ink, evenly and neatly printed on snowy white parchment. A fairy tale of a book; with a fairy tale of a price. Sixteen galleons. Sixteen! My own is barely worth one.

I'm not superficial, well not really. But this book is eerily similar- like a newer version of the one that Albus would read from when I was in his care. It was a greater kind of spell, the one that he weaved from that book. I can never read my Tales without hearing his calm, gentle voice in my head, going over the words.

With lack of anything to do but enjoy your company, I get out a Permanent Quill that the Weasley twins gave to me. I dip it in the matching ink, careful not to get any on my fingers as I hear from Molly that it really is unremovable; and I doodle on the pictures, much to the occupants' horror. Cornelius Fudge (again, the show off) is so mortified he storms out of his picture frame. Come to think of it, he does look rather fetching with lipstick and long dangling earrings shaped like love hearts.

I giggle like the naughty child that I am and take particular delight in giving Rita Skeeter a curly moustache and a beard worthy of Rubeus Hagrid.

I can hear movement down the corridor, so I gather my stuff. Joan hasn't forgotten the time I spilled unremovable ink on the dining room table and we couldn't get it off. Especially as it was only yesterday.

I am just in time. The Healer is nanoseconds away, looking very pleased with herself.

"You may go in now."

Silently I walk in, and she's there.

My niece; my sister's daughter.

Joanie is there holding her in her lithe arms, exhausted but gleeful- a bit like she's just run a race. The baby is asleep (tired too, I suppose) wrapped up in a waffle blanket, her little upturned nose sniffling gently. Without a word, Joanie hands her over to me and my breath is swept away as she opens her eyes and looks straight into mine. Curiously, as though she would know everything about me and that still wouldn't be enough. Her eyes are green, wild green, sea green, the untamed green of the pond where the water lilies. I always loved those lilies.

I wonder what she would see in my eyes. My own eyes, cold and grey, devoid of any warmth, like flint stones, corrupted by murder and stained with tears that could not be shed. All innocence gone, no scruples any more. No more aspirations or chances to dream, only to die. Hope in the arms of despair, born of love and life.

Wordlessly, she goes back to Joan and with a heart of love and a mouth tasting redcurrants, I head off for the kitchen.

This day has been eventful. I have never had a diary before, but then I've never had a niece before. I've had family though; just as I've written stories and poems ranging from "What am I here for?" to "My boyfriend was a Blast-Ended Skrewt." Merlin, I had fun writing that one. (Based on Joanie's teenage escapades- don't ask.)

This diary shall record our lives from now. Because I swear her life will be different. She will not live in fear of her murderous grandfather as I have. She will not cry out in despair, freedom gone, as I have done so many times. She will not be condemned to a short life of death and destruction. Never again must those horrors be faced by one so young- not her. By Merlin, not her.

One day, people will not find this book, this diary and ask of me, of this girl; who she is, what she did, where she came from and who she really was.

Therefore I shall introduce myself as I am, the author of this scribbling, so that people can remember me, if they so chose.

And so this diary begins thus: my name is Marion, [Anne Ruth] and I am a Popyngcart.


	3. A Summer Night's Dream

_Continued_

_Later_

The early hours dwindle by in the dim kitchen. The Healer has been gone for hours now, barely stopping to congratulate us before hurrying on. To be honest, my mood has lifted with her gone. And I think Baby's has too.

Joanie has been discussing names; but we can't quite make a decision. We managed to boil it down to something with the letter A. I suggested armadillo, anaesthetic and Antonia. All three were turned down, especially Antonia.

My last idea is Adelaide. It just sounds very pretty, if a bit old-fashioned. She could be Adela for short.

"Adelaide, Joan. " I said. "I think she should be Adelaide."

"Yes. She looks like one doesn't she? Like Adelaide."

Adelaide. Yes. That has the right ring to it. Adelaide Lucile Stanley; a curious blend of names for a girl from the strangest of backgrounds, and one from both sides of the magical spectrum. I would love to see her grow up, to see what she will become.

Adelaide is asleep in her cot, and an exhausted Joanie, pink-cheeked with her love takes a well-deserved break; and sips blackcurrant tea. I dip digestives into my own mug when she isn't looking.

I gaze up at the clock. Ten minutes to midnight, and as the weary hand takes its toll, so do my eyes take their cue and start to droop. I rest my head on my folded arms propped up by a comforting table. I never really appreciate the smoothness of my kitchen table until I tire of the day and am glad of its place in the kitchen.

I wonder what it would be like to be a piece of wood in a table. Would it be a communal union; or an imprisoning crush? What would be the reception of polish? Would it be welcome? A comforting embrace, calming or soothing? Or a suffocating, stifling, baffling bond?

That is when I collapse. It comes faster than I can scream its arrival; I stiffen at its chilling rattle and fall off my chair, pathetic as a china doll. The last things I hear and see is Joan gasp and drop her teaspoon, before darkness clouds my vision, though my eyes remain defiantly open.

It's the same vision; the one I have had for the past two years. It strikes nightly, or has done. Adelaide's arrival has halted its march through sleeping and waking.

Midnight of ignorance, not a star of truth lightens the sky. A grave opens and wakes its sleeper, though I beg it not to. I am powerless in this dream. A skeleton rises, torn from rest at peace in the ground, decay disturbed on its thin, aged bones. Its gaping, rotting jaw opens in a scream- not unlike my own. If it could, it would- talk to us of its torment. But it can't, and I soon discover why. A thick, hissing snake rises up and through the dead man's jaw, stifling his scream, muffling the cry. I feel a tightness in my own throat, trapping me, forcing me to watch.

Finally the snake is freed, but the danger is far from over. It advances upon me, getting closer and closer. Then it is gone and I watch images, fast moving and melting as quickly as they came. Clouds darkened, thunder rumbled and lightning pierced my vision, leaving dazzling white spots. A stream of tears trickled into a river, running thick with blood. There were the howls of a wolf pack at the dispersions of the hunters.

A chess board of intrigue, no way of knowing black from white, ebony from ivory. A queen's gambit- and a clock. Shifting the balance, the pressure from side to the next. The endless ticking, relentless.

And finally, what I have never seen before; which haunts me more than the rest. A pendulum, swinging and swinging rhythmically. And the ticking, louder than before. Counting down; counting down to the inevitable.

I'm a ghost, witnessing my own demise.

And then it fades; and glad am I to see Joanie. She is not sad, not worried. Without a word she lifts my arm and feels for my pulse. Of course, there is none. As a Seer, I flip into a trance between life and death. I breathe; and keep my consciousness, but my eyes are open and unseeing, unfeeling to anything other than their own visions.

I am cold, and gingerly I reach for my tea, bending to get up.

But I continue to watch Joanie, who looks back at me.

"My unlucky sister," she says, "My lemon and ice-cream sister. What shall I do with her?"

I stay with Joanie that night, sleeping in the crib at the end of her bed, as young and vulnerable as Adelaide again. I look up at the ceiling, illuminated by lights from passing cars. I always close my curtains at night, but Joan always forgets. Driving me nuts (literally) because there is too much light!

I toss and turn, unrested. I stroke the dark blue flowers, the tiny things and listen to Joan's snuffling- not snoring, snuffling. Joanie and Tom always snuffle when they're asleep. It's cute when it's not annoying.

Another light catches my eye, out from the corner. It's not from outside- too long and powerful to be anything Muggle- but from the corridor. That's another thing about Joanie. She doesn't shut her bedroom door.

And now that light is becoming familiar. I rise, ignoring the unfamiliar cold. I follow it obediently, for it will do me no harm. It can't. It's from Dumbledore.

It is only when we both, glistening in the moonlight, face each other, Patronus and client. I kneel so that it looks me in the eye, and I know that this is not ordinary message. Somewhere, Dumbledore is looking straight back at me.

And then it's over. My work, dreams- as washed away as footprints in sand, as though they never existed. I may as well be a breath of wind, passing over field after field, not an ounce of control in all of it.

My sacrifices, my future, my worth and purposes- all gone and swept away before I can raise a hand to halt its unyielding progress.

Voldemort is back. He has returned, more terrifying in death than he ever was in life. So pathetic, isn't it- get rid of one Dark Lord and another comes to fill its place.

Already my mind is at peril. There is so much at risk- Voldemort will free my father, he will find me. My sister and I will surely be killed, there is neither mercy, nor pity or scruples in our father's heart. My niece is three hours old. She is still in our care for two months before we give her to Minty and Benny. Two months of danger; two months of worry. A moment of failure and a lifetime of guilt, an eternity of grief.

My father will hunt me down like a fox butchers a henhouse. The Ministry can offer me no protection, if nothing else I shall be tortured and killed. If my Occlumency slips, if any of the secrets Dumbledore himself has confided in me are spilled I can never forgive myself. Knowledge is to priceless to give. I have studied the First War, in all the excruciating details Dumbledore did not spare me from. I know that we shall be facing worse than before. It is only a matter of time before the nightmares of foreshadowing begin again.

As I walk back to Joan's room, I catch myself in the long mirror. I am short, as I always have been- and thin, thinner than I ever thought. My nightdress hangs loosely- too loosely. I am pale, and sad. My hair, the lemon strands that taper down to almost my shoulders are flecked with black. I'm not blonde until I dye it.

I'm not even much of a person any more. I'm a shadow, a reflection of humanity- a ghost girl. The pendulum comes back to mind and I quickly hide from the mirror's blank honesty. I return to my crib and dreamless sleep.

_25__th__ June 1995_

_11:03_

Joan has sent an owl to Minty, and another comes back now.

It would have been so difficult to explain everything, especially when the world's problems are multiplied at eight o'clock in the morning, with bed head, bags and toast just asking to get burned.

Joanie has made it much easier though, in fact part of me though that she knew already. Joanie is the kind of person that just gets what you mean. She doesn't hesitate to do what she must.

Minty says Benny has protected the house with a Fidelius Charm and that our Adela's cot is staying firmly in their room. She is also adamant that we choose "a sensible name; that I can actually say in public without a straitjacket". It is so nice to know that in these times of trial and tribulations, Minty Stafford keeps her sense of humour.

Up above, Adelaide sleeps on. As I have discovered after Dumbledore's message became misty air and little more, Adela snuffles in her sleep too. She is very peaceful, asleep. No trials or dark clouds descending. My vision stays as painful as ever.

I've never had iron conviction like this before (though I had similar feelings over Fudge's stupid lime bowler hat: "No, just plain no.") and I know that Voldemort has returned. I trust Albus' judgement (though I don't always agree with it) and my vision is testimony: no vision of mine has ever been false, or inaccurate, though I would have given much for them to be so. And also because Harry can't lie to me. It just doesn't work.

Last night's orders were simple: he wants to see me to fully explain what has happened. He says to be prepared, it will be hard. He also has a proposal for me and Joan. I will pass on the message, as galloping marshmallows won't stop Joanie leaving Adela's side.

So lots of big meetings, confrontation. No hiding skeletons in wardrobes. Too much room for a start. The world has been turned upside down; it is time to pick up the pieces, no matter how sharp.

Joanie gives me a much welcome hug. I breathe Joanie smell: lavender and tones of honey. Joanie is better than any Sleeping Potion (never been good at taking them). To clear my mind of last night's horrors, I imagine a scrubbing brush wiping my mind clean.

I have to leave in ten minutes; bag, check. It's a very serious day today, so dark colours; purple gilet, dark jumper, navy scarf. Shoes clean hair back.

A wish to them for a nice day; and then the bubble bursts and the world is open. It took gargantuan energy to just move from my crib- why does everything takes so much effort when you are sad?

My house is bright and colourful; and today in my uniform of depression I don't slot in. It's a house of happier times, of gables and priest holes, oubliettes and a roof that's perfect for reading on. If the book is particularly bad, there are functioning chimneys placed conveniently by. I get complaints from grandparents in the neighbourhood; their little bundles of joy think its "Santa" crashing down the chimney and it's not, it's a half price paperback that has more worth in a recycling centre.

I miss Tom. This was very much his house; he certainly didn't mind me on the roof. Sometimes he would join me. He was my brother-in-law; Joanie's husband.

I'm reminded of him everywhere, even though he died almost a year ago. His dressing gown hangs next to Joan's, his watch (still going) is on her wrist. His medicine in the first aid cabinet. I don't like to look at it. I'm more afraid of opening it than of being ill. The little bottles remind me of how he died.

I'm nervous now; if it takes an hour just to eat breakfast (normally I'm out of the house in twenty minutes flat) how am I supposed to Apparate? It used to be so easy. Destination, Determination, Deliberation. That b****y inspector didn't just say it, he hammered it into my soul. I had to retake my test, because he annoyed me so much I lost my temper and deliberately Apparated on top of him. The Weasley twins were laughing for weeks.

As I head off down the road; I see Therese. I like Therese, my dear old Muggle neighbour. (There are lots of Muggles in Tetreton. Arthur had a field day when I invited him to visit. )

Therese is a good sport, despite near culture clashes. We were eating afternoon tea at her house, and she was about to wash the dishes when she told me "to be a dear, and put Countdown on."

I then had a panic attack because I had no idea what she meant. I assumed she meant the television box thing, (Muggles in Tetreton like their televisions, they talk about it all the time at the market) but then I had no idea how to set it up for her. I found on the side table a big thick plastic wand with buttons on it. I waved it, twirled it, but nothing happened. In the end I hid it behind the television box thing and pretended I couldn't find it. She ended up doing it herself; and I felt pretty rotten. Thankfully she hasn't asked me to "turn it on" since.

Dumbledore and I vary a lot in terms of timing. A meeting doesn't usually last less than an hour, but can be up to six hours. Despite the urgency of the situation, it feels better to be meeting him.

Here goes one long day.

Hogsmeade hasn't aged a day, it never does. The Scottish countryside is timeless in its age and grace, wild beauty I never lose. The guard of Dumbledore's study is imposing, until the magic words are spoken: mini chocolate éclairs. That's the password, though mini chocolate éclairs are magic in all cultures and have helped me in numerous ways.

I am awaiting the arrival of tragedy, and an unfortunate knowledge. This is where we go on.


	4. Harsh Realities

_25__th__ June_

He is there, as always; a smile on face and a sherbet lemon to hand.

"Marion," he says, "Welcome."

I step past him into the study. Like so many things about Albus, it hasn't aged a day. The whizzing whirling silver instruments on their spindly little tables; the books I read and loved. The portraits whose banter amused me for hours. Especially Dippet: I always argued with Dippet.

I take a seat; and as I do I see the Sorting Hat, the most amazing piece of headgear that I'll never wear.

"Ah, Marion," he used to say, "I'd give my hatband to know what goes on in that brain of yours. You'd make a fine addition to the gallery of hatstalls."

As my eyes roam from the Hat, I catch sight of the old stool on which I would learn my lessons less than five years previous. Those rickety old legs that I would my own around. I would balance a book on my knee and read it when Albus was busy with a meeting. And I would pretend not to listen.

But the nostalgic sight I am happiest to see has to be Albus.

Two hours later, and my head's reeling. I explained my vision to Albus, in detail and he revealed its meaning. He inquired after other visions; of which I had none. I was told all of the facts, but I'd swap my arm for an opinion. They tell me the most.

Thoughts, feelings are fleeting so I can barely recognise them, fractions of what they once were.

Cedric's dead. My friend, my stout and loyal Cedric, my true preserver and the person who has never lied to me. How awful it is, that a curse should miss the false and conniving, and never fail to strike the good and innocent. At the end of the day, there are two types of people. The quick and the dead.

He rescued me. Didn't flinch from saving me, no fear just thoughtless help and unswerving devotion. He went out of his way to pull me through when it would have been less daunting or grisly to leave me to fate's unreliable hands. I was a wreck of unsound mind. But nevertheless, he was there for me. But I couldn't be there for him; and that hurts me most of all.

It was Quirrell who was the means of my distress. Less than half a week before his own demise, we had duelled. For him, it was fear. For me it was anger, suspicion and defence. I had confronted him about his behaviour, threatened him. But I'm not Severus Snape, I was a three foot something or other seven year old with bad teeth and a thick Welsh accent, struggling to construct an English sentence. But he attacked me anyway. Must be the Voldemort effect, to attack something that's not even a threat to you. He was thirty; I was seven.

Guess who won?

He was too powerful for my inexperience. I was hidden behind a statue and left to die.

And in this state I was left; for Cedric to find me and carry me to hospital, where Poppy Pomfrey worked tirelessly day and night to basically save my life.

That is a debt I can never pay, not now or ever.

Albus wants me to talk to his parents. I'm not a teacher of his, or a relative- I can't even call myself a classmate. But I'm a friend to him as I am to all. He said I could help.

For Amos, well- he may as well be attending his own funeral. This is awful. No parent should ever have to bury their child.

This is why, if they ever bury Adelaide; they'll bury me too.

In true Ministerial fashion, Fudge isn't helping. I grit my teeth; he is my employer, a single complaint and I'll be out on my ear. But underneath this blank face deep passions burn, blood boils. I'm almost a teenager; he'd be stupid to disregard my emotions. I'm no automaton.

But really, my blood boils. How many more must die to convince him? What other logical explanation can cause Cedric's death? There may be plenty his brainbox can come up with, but this is not a logical situation. If he says it's Cedric's fault, or something equally stupid, I could actually find it in me to kill him.

The moment he brings in that Dementor, my hand is on my wand. This can only end badly. People my age are sleeping less than a minute's float from that thing. That kind of thoughtless action ends lives and if I intrude on Ministry property by hurting that vile creature, I won't regret it. Honestly, if someone gets to Fudge before I do, I'm not sending them to prison. Au contraire, they get a b****y Honeydukes' gift voucher on me.

But enough of Fudge. I really must control myself around him. He isn't evil. Just stupid. And really, really annoying.

Dumbledore has a proposal.

"I want you and Joan too, to join the reinstated Order of the Phoenix. I have use for you skills."

I freeze. This is it. Heading off to the front line against Lord Voldemort, a piece in chess game of intrigue. There's only so long I have left. At this point, life starts petering out.

He wants me to embark on the most dangerous experience of my life.

I'll meet my father again. It's been over five years but we'll know each other.

I said yes. I will join. I don't want to go it alone any more. The world is hard on one person. But two plus- that's different. Joanie won't object, but I've made no obligation. She makes her own mind.

Albus frowns at me.

"Are you sure? This is what you really want?"

What I want. Not many people ask that of me. I'm given a job and left alone. Choice is a privilege.

"That is what I must do. There is no other way."

He shakes his head at me.

"This is the last thing I wanted for you, from the start. "

"But that was then. I must defend my niece's future, in the here and the now. "

"You gamble, and for the highest stakes Miss Popyngcart."

"Risk does not come into it. It never did."

And then he leaves to visit Harry and Dobby comes in with some lunch for me.

"Dobby has come to give Madam Popyngcart some lunch. Dobby thought she would be hungry."

"Dobby was right. Madam would indeed like some food."

He comes in, places a tray, waves away my profuse thanks and leaves.

I should get him something for Christmas. Socks, perhaps? Big red bobbly ones with reindeers on. Therese will know where to get some from Tetreton Market.

I wonder how Neville is. I shall visit him today; free myself from this crazy time. I don't where he is or where he'll be, but I hope he is all right.

After the day's work is done; plans for protecting the prophecy, vision inducing and possible locations of Death Eaters spinning round in my head I go for a walk around the grounds.

Some people find it strange that I like to walk around in the dark, but I don't. Sometimes I will wander without knowledge of my hand in front of my face. (Though walking into a tree you can't see is worse than it sounds).

I suppose people find the dark frightening because it is the unknown, as much as spiky pine trees. I find the unknown a daring prospect I can relish in. By braving the acceptance of ignorance, it takes us further down the road to discovery. To stride in the night garden is to journey further into the dark recesses of the mind. Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness, but to accept the darkness and what lessons we may learn from it is better still. Humans are bad creatures (or can be) and will always be flawed but by accepting our faults and learning from the mistakes of ourselves and others we light more candles still. Life's mistakes are lessons to be learned.

Goodnight, sweet diary.

_26__th__ June_

A quieter day today. Dumbledore says the first Order meeting is on the 30th, so for now we have other things to do.

I sit at my sewing machine, changing reels, the one textile action I do by hand.

The familiar hum is pleasant, reliable, consistent, and predictable. No uncertainties, only the thin wisp of a needle, the round white handles and soft green buttons. My completed work is proudly displayed on the red chair next to me. Baby vests, socks, jumpers, suits and skirts. A grey woollen beret- displayed near my magnum opus: an unfinished crocheted white shawl on the mannequin. It covered the whole table when I was making it earlier. The tassel bits at the edges were very fiddly, not to mention the unicorns. I think I got the horns wrong: like ice creams on a cone melting in the sun.

I wonder if I'll ever see all her growing up? Will Joanie be there too? Could there even be a time, safe enough where Joanie can look after Adelaide again? With my children and grandchildren? Will those grandchildren even ever exist? So many things say otherwise.

That'll have to be a world without Voldemort.

Joan is silent, polishing a thin gold bangle ready for Adela's christening in November. Joanie was given that in 1980. Adina was given it in 1960. My grandmother [Io Popyngcart] got that from a car boot sale the same week as our queen was coroneted. She restored it; and it was a duty for all us Popyngcart women to preserve and cherish it, our last precious thing we can give to Adela, whose worth cannot be measured or confined.

When I think of the five hundred thousand Galleon inheritances, each, that we forfeited. Liberty; at the price of caste. Of all the gold, fine jewels, goblin made goods (stolen from the makers at barbarous prices) mahogany, properties and trivial gems; and yet that small bangle has survived it all. One piece of heritage; and one remnant of history.

What a family we have.

_28__th__ June_

The Ministry has refused to accept Harry's testimony. I am getting sick of it all.

_30__th__ June 1995_

The first meeting of the reinstated Order of the Phoenix

So many old friends I never knew I had! Well, I did know, but it is a surprise to see them all again. Though really, given the circumstances, I should not be. Nymphadora Tonks, Mad Eye Moody (coming out of retirement –again). Kingsley Shacklebolt, Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Dedalus, Hestia, Emmeline Vance, Sturgis Podmore.I remember Sturgis. I have to; I set his newspaper on fire once. Emmeline- I mended that shawl of hers when Tonks trod on it.

There are countless people here today, whom I've never even met. But I will meet them and I will know them. These are ordinary, everyday people, and yet they are the least ordinary people you could ever hope to meet. I know of nobody who I would rather fight Voldemort alongside. Because that is our goal here; to defeat Voldemort altogether and forever.

I'm pleased to see everyone- except maybe Dung Fletcher. Misery acquaints man with dodgy bedfellows; but better that Dung is with us than against us. Even though I almost arrested him last year. Hope he doesn't take it personally. He looks nervous now. Well I'm not going to arrest him now am I?

I certainly don't want anyone here to die. But I'll have to accept that someone of us definitely won't be here next year. If Dung popped it, I would mind terribly, but then I'd probably panic about to whom to return the stolen cauldrons to. Why don't I get along with Dung? Partly, he tried to punch me for legally arresting him on the grounds of selling stolen goods, secondly the punch was rubbish. What a shoddy job. I'll keep an eye on him; though knowing Mad Eye I won't have to, but I'll do it anyway. You never know what could happen when you put Mad Eye with Dung.

I'm the shortest here, (though almost as tall as Dung) apart from Kreacher, who has not been pleased to see me at all. "Filth! Treachery! Disgrace on the houses of her fathers! What a shamefaced liar, a conniving shrew, to set foot in the house of my mistress' forebears. O, the shame of her scandals! Out, out!"

Normally most people use hello.

After hours of scouring Ministry plans and discussing sightings of giants, Death Eaters and the like, Molly provided refreshments. I've been in the Dome (department of mysteries, but that's what Mad Eye calls it) many times, mainly to research for the Auror Office. All that knowledge, whispering to a Seer on display- so tantalizing. I've never know a test like it, in the dark with those eerie white globules hovering next to you. I've also written out my last will and testament there- so many times I've practically memorized it.

We've set up rotas for the distribution of guard duty, and I have to say I'm not surprised for Remus, Marauder as he is, to pair himself up with young Tonks. Cue eyeballs to the ceiling!


	5. A July Nightmare

_4__th__ July_

It is late, and I am tired. My head is reeling and I want to sleep.

Joanie hasn't been getting much sleep either. Adelaide's only managed to get to sleep an hour ago, after I sang her every song I could think of, including a not entirely savoury one Fred Weasley taught me. I hope she doesn't remember it. Or worse, repeat it to Minty Stafford.

I think she knows. I think she knows that we can't keep her; that we are forced to give her to Minty and Benny so that we can give our lives to yet another cause. She senses my sorrow, feels my fear. But she will not face it like I shall.

I want to give her so much more. She deserves so much more than I'm able to give her. I'm a stranger; that can but love from afar. She may not even remember the little girl who cared so much about her.

But I'll always remember her. And one day she will know about me.

_10__th__ July_

Tonight; my first night shift guarding the prophecy. I was shaking so hard leaving headquarters, Remus was worried. She might be ill, said he. Sturgis was determined; he said if we lose her Dumbledore will be furious- too "valuable to lose". But Moody put his foot down.

"If she wants to be in the Order, she has to grow up."

I'm not giving up, so it seems I must grow up. No going backwards now.

I position myself carefully, not daring to look at the mysterious white orbs that can be so tempting. I release numerous Patronuses that lumber off. They are my trusty guards, my sentries. Should there be any presence other than my own, they will alert me immediately. They will also inform me the identity, location and direction of the invader. And I have my trusty throwing knives with me. I don't even have to make a single sound.

Ten hours. Ten hours of isolation, with only the heaviness of my task and the need to stay awake present. Nobody knows I am here, tucked away in darkness. My hidden hours, in endless night. What does one do on a double shift?

Nights of paranoia, these shifts are. Jumping at shadows, at flickering lights. Emptiness and silence.

I could go back to work. Auror HQ is only a few floors and it's almost always busy.

To my horror, I find myself slipping into a nightmare.

_It is the 6__th__ day of May, in 1990 Yorkshire. Two girls, one with hair the colour of summer flowers, the other of autumn leaves. One tall and willowy, the other weeps. They are the children of killer._

_And the mother of such children cannot bear to see them. Daily she prays to be released from the torment of a marriage, to be free her suffocating love, for Adina Popyngcart is in love with a killer._

_These lost souls that look for a time of rest, are bound in flesh and blood, to a killer._

_Pray Death will set them free of such a debt. _

_And so cometh he, the pox that cankers such flowers and the demon of his native land. _

_She loved him, but he did not keep her long._

He killed her too, added her name to a list of other innocent souls dragged down to his infernal hell of death and torment. Stamped all life out of her like an iron boot on a daisy, or frost on a meadow.

_His green curse that strikes the victim like a thing of fire that taketh life from the giver. _

_And so it was that Adina Popyngcart lost her life._

_Pray you shall not follow suit, in such an unfortunate fate as that. _

The nightmare lasts longer than a vision but is equally terrifying. It's a reminder of the past. It's a reminder of what I am.

_11__th__ July_

I came back shaking from that experience; and was thus ill in the toilet. Tonks and Remus were more than happy to relieve me of my duties that night. Joanie does double shifts but she has convinced him to go it alone so that she can accompany me.

People at the Order were sympathetic but I still couldn't stop feeling guilty over the ineptitude. Remus gave me chocolate (which I am gratefully eating at the moment) and even Sirius feels sorry for me. I know he would much rather go out to guard instead of me. It certainly isn't easy to be stuck in a house all day with bad memories. I may have killed and maimed, but he's stuck with that portrait of a mother for the rest of his days. It would be as bad as me having every reminder of my numerous crimes played in my head on a loop, inescapable unless I shut down completely.

I lost it with Mrs Black last week. There's only so many times she can call me filth, or insinuate that I've disgraced the only family I have. Worse that she calls Tom worthy of a horrific and early death, and implying that I should do the world a favour and go die in a hole.

So I sent a message bluntly expressing my opinion of her catcalling. No words could deem it expressible, so I conjured a throwing knife and hurled it at her. It hit its target: inches from her ear and catching her cap and pinning her to her own canvas. It took some working on her part to free herself and fling the knife back at me, missing entirely and knocking the nose off a stuffed house-elf head and screaming abuse for hours which I largely ignored. Much obliged to indulge in your conversation, Mrs. Black.

Kreacher has taken revenge by invading my privacy in my room. I've told him enough times (much politer tones than I deem necessary for Madame Black) that I will clean my room myself and that he need not interfere.

It's tiny, my room. A small divan, a lamp on a small chest of drawers. When I first got given the room it was awful. Bugs living in the cracks in the wallpaper, huge sheets of wallpaper just dissolving and peeling off. The Molly Weasley war effort is taking its toll on Kreacher's little sanity and I for one would rather have the house empty than filled with ominous junk that keeps trying to kill people.

Molly says I am very hard-working and very determined; she is one of the people that protests about my nightmare shifts.

"You work far too hard. Don't know what Dumbledore was thinking letting you join up. You are useful, you are talented and I know full well you can fight. But you are far too young. Besides, that ridiculously large workload you take on at the Ministry can't be good for your health! I don't even know why you work in the Ministry, there's no education to be had there whatsoever."

She's meaning my height. Curses, wounds and some quite serious operations to save my life have halted and stunted my growth. I'm probably eleven but half of my clothes are for an eight year old.

_27__th__ July_

Packing. Adelaide leaves us tomorrow. Her last dinner here, her last sleep as our little girl. Then she goes to the Staffords', thirty five miles away in Canterbury. I can't write any more.

_28__th__ July_

She is gone. We left her in Benny's gentle arms. Lovingly we packed the few things she has; her clothes, her treasures, toys and blankets, bottles and soaps. A shell that she smiles to see; and her bangle. Whatever few things we could give her now.

We went by car, Muggle transport. I felt empty the whole way and I know Joan felt the same. She kept very composed, deadpan face and stable hands. She cried as she handed her child over. Never again will they sleep under the same roof. That is how it shall be.

It hurts to see my sister and friend so grieved. She has been forced to kill too, to become a huntress of Death Eaters. But she has been as firm and as resolute as ever. But until now she has never felt separation on this scale. Never before must she part with a child.

Our mother lost three. Our mother lasted no longer.

Joanie is still weeping as her willow. She fell asleep next to Tom's favourite pot plant in the garden, as she cried her grief for them both.

I miss Adela. She is safe and she is loved. I am alone, with nothing left but to fight.

_31__st__ July_

I met Dumbledore in his study today. He bade me walk in the grounds with him, all silent of laughter now that the summer holidays are underway.

"Of course I hope you remember that you must be ready to attend to my orders at all times."

"Of course."

"I have a mission for you. I have use for your Seeing Skills, as yet, but also of a mission I believe will be well suited to your disposition. Voldemort wants the prophecy, clearly, but he also wants to recruit followers. Lupin is to negotiate with the werewolves; and Hagrid with the giants. But the merpeople are of yet unaccounted for. The beginning of winter is the best time to reach them; and I believe the sirens will take to you. Your Druid heritage and Celtic blood will do you well. Play your cards right, persuade them in a way that only you can; and the waters will be a safer place for the Order."

"I do all that you command me."

"Truly?"

"Within reason."


	6. The Guard Advances

**A Note From the Editor:**** Many grateful thanks to all those who have reviewed! I am fascinated****as always to hear what you have to say. Please feel free to give me your wholehearted opinion of Marion so far. Clever? Cunning? Insecure? Victim or Murderess? Heroine or Villainess?**

**Please let me know! Regards, peace and joyce **

_1__st__ August_

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place is always a curious place to be at night, secretly at work under bustling London. The world oblivious to our presence, working always behind the scenes. It's where I do my writing when I am here, though I have to fight hard to keep this diary out of Kreacher's hands. It's always written in Welsh, so he can't read it, but you never can know with elfish magic. The last thing I want is him translating it and having a heart attack at my comments.

Opposite me is Joanie, carefully adding pieces to her scrapbook. It's massive; and she's had it for years, and it still isn't full. There's a variety of things, from family photographs, quotations, sketches, watercolour pictures, curious ink blots and scraps of pretty fabrics. Delicately and lovingly wrapped in plastic to preserve them and attached with Spellotape. Whenever things go wrong, from a bad day to bereavement, she silently opens her scrapbook, confines the memory to its pages; rather like a paper Pensieve.

Sirius comes in; looking grumpy as he grouchily disturbs a snoring Crookshanks.

"What are you doing, Marion?"

He smells too.

"I am writing." He laughs and ruffles my hair even though he knows it always winds me up.

"How long? You've written heaps."

I shrug. The words are harder to say.

"Since his return; when Adelaide was born."

Joan looks up. She's holding a glue brush, which she uses whenever the Spellotape sticks together (which it often does; with her poised fingers) - bits of glue are dripping onto the pages.

I try to tactfully divert the topic.

"You should try writing, Sirius. It's engaging; it brings a sense of fulfilment. "

He barks out a laugh.

"What, today I counted thirty dead Doxy eggs and was subject to verbal abuse by my darling mother?"

I have the conversation under control; when Snape enters the room. I can feel storm clouds creeping. Remain calm. File quietly towards the exits.

Severus sneers as Sirius' face darkens.

"I don't know Black. Perhaps we should listen to the little one. Would be good for you to do something productive- for a change."

Oh, foot in mouth city! Sirius is moving for his wand. Time for an intervention. The situation can still be salvaged. I rise to my feet, in haste.

"Thank you, Severus, for an example of words very counter-productive. Sirius, I'm sure Remus needs to talk to you- upstairs."

Sirius slouches off, and Joan returns to frantically blotting some glue.

I glare a warning to Severus.

"Be careful what you say, Severus! By no means must the Order be split in two by your continual bickering!"

"I'm more than capable of taking on Black."

"I know you are. But there'll be no fighting under this roof. It is an area of sanctity and refuge from Voldemort's victims. Don't break the peace. "

He turns to a new tack- my diary.

"foolish girl. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Diary writing is suicidal. "

He snatches at the notebook and attempts to read it.

"Coleslaw- tuna- fish fingers!" He glares at my secret smile.

"The Dark Lord can break charms!"

"Good luck to him then. He can learn a thing or two from that."

"Don't push your luck."

"Don't push your mouth."

"You said it was a sanctity refuge."

"We can always go outside."

He storms off. Joanie's face is set from behind her scrapbook. I return to my books as Sirius comes back in, confused.

"Remus is out. Why didn't you say so?" I false sympathesize.

"Oh pity. Must have slipped my mind. My fault."

He rolls his eyes and shouts for Kreacher.

All that over, I wonder if Molly Weasley knows any good glue removal spells.

_2__nd__ August_

It is hard to write, my hand sliding up and down the page drunkenly (though you'll never see a drop of liquor on me today) as we are on the move. Harry is in difficulty; and we must answer to the call of a friend.

After yesterday's escapade, I had meant to leave writing for a day or two (the river of creativity can be dammed and blocked through overuse of its faculties) but today's news has to be too important to lay off. And so I shall record.

It is before ten o'clock and having been summoned from Stafford Place alongside Joanie, mainly to find that pandemonium now rules the house. Dung is cowering underneath a table by my feet, fearful of Arabella Figg's vengeance. As well he might.

Dumbledore had interrupted the meeting to deal with the matter at the Ministry that Harry has caused. Sirius and Arthur sent off owls telling Harry what to do. I saw copies of them, and I have to say they were pretty abrupt. But I hope Harry follows their instruction. If I'd struggled with a Dementor as to who gets my soul, I'd want for at least some recognition. What else can one do? Ask it politely to pass you by? I don't think so. Remind it not to park on the double yellow lines? No.

Mad Eye's come up with a plan: to retrieve Harry and escort him to Grimmauld Place and on to Hogwarts. That way Harry can be kept closer under observation this year, from London to Hogwarts. Tonks has been asked to organize the operation, with my assistance, and whatever her clumsiness she is efficient. She also sent me a copy of the letter she sent to the Muggle relations- and I have to say it is brilliant. Only Tonks can come up with something like that. Diversions has always been a strong point for her, coupled with her flair for disguise. She has Muggle grandparents, like Adelaide, so the phraseology comes naturally to her. And it worked- they are gone.

I am to be in the Advance Guard tonight, with Joanie in the emergency rear guard. I pray she is not needed.

It's always nice to see Harry, he brings a smile to my face, a talent not everyone can achieve at a time like this. But I do hope that he has combed his hair since last Is aw him, he can be such a scruff. Tonks and I touch up our make up in front of a wolf whistling mirror. They don't call it warpaint for nothing you know. Should I be killed by Voldemort, I want to look my best, even if he won't.

A message from Dumbledore. There is to be a hearing on the 12th, and he wants me there. Amelia Bones has already nominated me as Representative of the Auror Office, it's a full criminal do. I rarely add my voice as the Office's, normally just to testify as a witness or similar. Besides, I'm working through the summer and Kingsley has been so strict with me lately. But he says:

"_You are her _[Amelia Bones] _favourite. Also your presence will do well to pressure Fudge not to overstep the mark in front of Madam Bones. This should work to Harry's advantage, she'll be fair to him._"

Later

Time at last. All is timed to perfection, we leave in fifteen minutes. I've been leant a broom for the occasion (I can use my Animagus form to fly, or just fly unsupported) under strict observance from Mad Eye to bring it back in good condition.(He'd like it in one piece.) For once, someone's thinking about safety for me. It is deemed that should I lose my concentration through a spell, I could fall and potentially, die.

Tonks to my left continues to experiment and ponders if a Muggle can see electric blue hair from six thousand feet. She decides not to push her luck and goes for a "more neutral colour"- a strong shade of violet. I have my white coat on, a puffy little thing that seems to be reminiscent of the Michelin man.

I haven't been up in the air for a long while- the Quidditch World Cup was the last time I flew before Tom's death and Voldemort's return clipped my wings and suddenly flying is a danger and not a joy.

Brooms are a pain though. I borrowed Hestia's once, and huge handfuls of twigs started coming out when I tried to adjust the tailwind.

But this isn't pleasure flying. We have a duty to do, and by Merlin we'll do it.

The Dursleys' house is like a show room. Nothing out of place, no missed patches, no scuffs or marks of any kind. Does Petunia Dursley have a life? She must spend all day cleaning, especially without magic. Joanie spends less than twenty minutes with magic.

I'm keeping a spare eye out for Tonks. She 'd better not break anything. Harry's probably asleep.

Now she's gone and broken a plate. How did that drawer even get open?

Bashfully, she fixes it (thank goodness repairing spells exist) and puts it back in the drawer, knocking over a food processor while she's at it.

So much for quiet and stealthy.

Here he comes now, wand aloft. And no, he hasn't combed his hair. Surely he didn't imagine that we wouldn't come for him? What does he take me for?

The signal. It's all clear, our scouts have scoured the skies and seen no sign of danger. Moody rants his usual stuff, probably not realising that nobody actually listens. I can practically recite all of his speech. Stay in formation. Don't break ranks if one of us gets killed.

That's another thing about brooms. After a while, everything gets so cold. Turn west, south west, south east, north, east. I'm circling Harry like an eagle, swooping and dropping. This is going to get me very dizzy very quickly.

I check my watch. Flying for an hour, over an hour, and so slowly at that. Good job I wrapped up. Yep. There's Tonks, shouting at Mad Eye for wanting to double back. That must mean it's almost time to land.

Touch down on solid ground. Finally, I need some of Molly's tea!

Meeting time.


	7. An Unwelcome Grievance

_6__th__ August_

I was too tired to write anything (a poor excuse I know); so the story continues here. At first there were no secrets to tell- Joanie was at a friend's house for dinner; and as I eat at HQ a lot already, nobody minded my presence at dinner. The meeting that day was standard stuff: guard duty rotas, reports from trouble spots (areas where suspected Death Eaters live) and general Order business. Meanwhile the others are almost certainly attempting to eavesdrop on the Meeting, much to my amusement and Molly's steadfast indignation.

But it proves very hard for her to catch them at it. This house is huge; not as large as Rowle Manor (North Yorkshire, where I was born and bled) but about twice the size of my own home. There are countless bedrooms, a library, antechambers and rooms that are completely pointless. Let alone the twenty here, you could house fifty! A better HQ you couldn't find. Well, you could find plenty not covered in dust from head to toe and a house-elf vying for attention. But for what it is, it's better than it is worse, if that makes sense.

Despite Molly's constant fretting over my health, my weight has definitely increased since joining the Order; and I think it has a causal relationship with Molly's feeding me whenever she can.

Opinions are divided as whether I should stay or not [in the Order] Molly is dead against it, Remus is too but he doesn't say so much. The others either don't have an opinion, but concede to what Dumbledore says. As Dedalus puts it: "He'll have your best interests at heart, I am sure."

My thoughts were interrupted after we got back, as Tonks had knocked over the troll umbrella stand. Again. Why haven't we chucked it out yet? Here goes Mrs. Black. Again. What a wonderful afterlife she's having. My knife must clearly have no effect on her vocals, because she is as profane as ever and just as loud. I think her name's Walburga, but she never managed to introduce herself properly before she started screaming at me. Not that I mind. It's just her though, Kreacher is getting better. He isn't rude any more, he just stares at me. The rest of the portraits just keep out of the way, which is refreshing. One painting I can handle, fifty two I can't.

One can't help but admire the nobility of the Order. I look at all of them in meetings and it warms my cold heart. Remus, Mad Eye, Sirius- so brave, persevering. Dedalus and Hestia: two lovely people, caring and hospitable. Emmeline Vance, beautiful, calm and selfless. Sturgis and Dung- I have yet to see more of their good sides, but they are very helpful.

And me? I can't see myself famous, but here, clear as day is my diary. Proof that I was a living, breathing person, that I existed- in the darkest of times, but I lived when others didn't want me to. The people around the table, they lived too. Perhaps in a few years, most of them will have died- I'd be a fool to think otherwise. Though they may leave this world, they'll be here, incarnated in words and my botchy prose. We trod a different path to the world, and the world wasn't kind, but we existed. And no secrecy, erasing records or denial will ever change the fact that we _were_ here. Dead, stone cold and buried: but alive in people's hearts, their minds and memories. That is where I tell my story.

I was distracted from the aforementioned 'botchy prose' by Harry, bless his cotton socks. Well actually don't, because they smell a bit. The subject of conversation turned to Voldemort's return, as it so often does at HQ. Molly as expected was certain that it Wrong to tell Harry Order business, and Sirius thought it was Right. They were at loggerheads over dinner and Remus directed the discussion my way:

"So what do you think, Marion?" he asked eagerly.

Flattered to have him ask of my opinion, I explained:

"What we need to be careful, and mindful of, is that telling Harry Order secrets is not like getting news from the local gossip. These are not pleasant things, and not pleasant to know. Walls have ears, yes? People have died when something is accidentally 'let slip'. It's that simple- secrets spilled, blood spilled.

We have to know that it is safe to completely trust you all, you are very young" I cut off when Harry opened his mouth to object, "I am younger, but I hold Occlumency through day and night and have done so for four years. Be careful of the choice you make; once you go down the path of intrigue you can't double back, or un-know. There is no certainty in either route we take. Though I am happy for you to understand life here at HQ- another mind, fresh ideas are always welcome in a free household.

However, it is best to tell you what you can expect, and to confirm any previous insights or suspicions you may have. Have comfort in what you now know that you know; and expect no more."

Remus agrees to hold a balance and Sirius explains the basic situation to Harry, until Molly has her way and cuts him off.

Then the conversation turns controversial. Age and the Order- how young is too young. I know that he knows I'm in the Order. One day I hope he understands how lucky he was, not to join and to live his life without conspiracy and plotting, schemes that haunt his nights and cloud his days.

On my way home that night, I heard Harry talking about what he heard, and what he had thought. I am glad to hear a voice younger and kinder than the hard, bitter sounds I hear all day. The topic turns to knowledge again and I am sick with fear.

It's the most dangerous thing about me. _I know too much, to keep me safe. _

Versatile. Volatile. Dangerously difficult to control and destructive when it all goes wrong. Just a few seconds- drunkenness, a tongue slips and all goes to waste. So easy, so hard.

All my life, I've been haunted with visions of the future. Easy to tamper with, easy to misconstrue. There's nothing more dangerous to me than my sensing the future.

_7__th__ August_

Busy days, at HQ. Molly was keen to recruit me to the house cleaning cause, allowing more and more space for the Order to use. The others are less than happy that their helping the Order is confined to less than glamorous pursuits, but I personally would be quite happy just doing this. I'm not needed at work (unusual) and my meeting with Dumbledore isn't until six, so I am filling my hours with eradicating Doxy infestations. You only see them really in old abandoned houses when you check them for hiding Death Eaters.

Nothing is more satisfying than blasting Doxycide! I myself don't give much for mass murdering Doxys but it was oddly fun in its own way.

How sadistic that comment looks on paper!

_9__th__ August_

Percy Weasley is a PIG. There. I said it.

But he has. He has been so rude to me lately. All this power is probably going to his head. But then, I'm not great at being polite sometimes. If I think something is wrong, I will tell it how it is. But I have to bite my tongue with superiors and that I am not always too good at.

Scrimgeour has been problematic, badgering Tonks and looking at me like he doesn't trust me. Given my track record, perhaps he has cause. Some think I'm unpredictable, which I won't deny, it is true. But I am witch, and one changeable as the tide.

But Percy is just annoying me. He caught me up on the way to Auror HQ, pomposity oozing from his fingertips to his inkwell. I'm so paranoid about it; I smell it on his breath. Bureaucratic quill pusher.

We used to be friends, distantly. I even got a joke or two past him. He positively beamed at me when I congratulated him for his achievements. I commended his work ethic, now he hates me.

"Good morrow, Miss Popyngcart."

"Hello Percy." He doesn't like me calling him that, but I use it still because that is his name.

"Mr. Weasley, Secretary and Scribe to the Minister- to_ you_"

See what I mean?

"It is the name I shall continue to use. What do you want of me?"

He raises an eyebrow.

"I am sure that you are fully aware that at Harry Potter's disciplinary trial tomorrow you must be there."

"Of course." PIG PIG PIG. "As a representative of the Auror Office- though why I am needed is beyond me." I in turn raise my own pale eyebrows as though I am so dense that I do not understand the Ministry's peculiar behaviour.

Most Ministry workers fall for my false naivety; Percy doesn't. He's not stupid.

"Why it is a full criminal trial- Miss _Rowle _I'm sure you are aware. We haven't had a full scale enquiry for- oh, it must be _five_ years."

I recoil and hiss like an angry cat. I've tried so hard to make people forget- to make myself forget who I really am. I'm a Popyngcart- like my mother not a Rowle. He is my father.

Five years ago. I was young and I truly believed in the goodness of the world. I saw the Ministry, in all its opulence. I thought it could help. What I didn't know was that it would compound the problem. I appealed to the justice system in honesty. I was trapped in the innocent sounding "internships."

Half the people who sentenced me had no idea that I would be going to my death. Just like the 2,500 Child Aurors who lost their lives in the First Wizarding War alone.

I shall speak no more to him. My pain and humiliation to a system based on "charity" is not a joke. It's real.

And like it or not, I will fight to stop Harry going the same way.


	8. Corruption Most Foul

_12__th__ August_

Today is the day. I wake at five o'clock. The meeting last night went on until three in the morning, so I bunked out [fell asleep] at my room in London, rather than risk Apparating home (never try it when you're exhausted. I did, and ended up about 300 miles off) so it was a sleepy start in the kitchen. Drowsily I kick Crookshanks who mews and hisses at my pale bestockinged feet.

"Shurrup [Shut up] Crookshanks," I mumble before shuffling off to work. Footsteps upstairs tell me that Harry is up too.

So this is my working morning, Reader. Six o'clock and I'm at my desk watching the zombie night shifters clear off. Auror work is either incredibly dangerous or incredibly dull. Nobody watching me brew the early morning tea or set up the heating spells (Magical Maintenance on strike, again.) would think that a week ago I had fought my way out of a dangerous and suspect house.

Now it's Joan's turn to be out on a mission, which is where she is today. With my diary secretly balanced under my desk I start dictating a report to a dog eared quill while writing this diary at the same time. Not easy. The in tray is in good shape, thank goodness. Savage, another Auror similar in ilk to Dawlish, never reads anything in his in tray. He simply moves it from in tray to out tray with a scribble in the margin; under consideration or (if it's a good day) under active consideration. There's a running gag with the Child Aurors: under consideration means he has lost the document, under active consideration means he's trying to find it! Although actually, he talks a lot of sense for someone who doesn't know what they are talking about.

Also Savage can never Summon anything. Joanie does it for him a lot of the time, mainly because she's nice or because otherwise nothing would ever get done. One time she tried to Summon a briefcase full of Sirius documents whilst trying to tie her shoelaces. Consequently she couldn't see what she was doing; her aim was about a foot too low. The thick, chunky red briefcase hurtled dangerously past Kingsley before colliding with Dawlish's head, contents spilling in the process. Thoughts of Dawlish reeling and stumbling, surrounded by a blizzard of white and cream paper butterflies is unforgettable, and humbling too, to his arrogant memory.

Before long, it's ten to eight and harry has come in to the shock of his life. The Marion he has seen and knows, is loud and argumentative, makes decisions in the Order and is at ease with her friends. She is generally calm and mild- maybe friendly, probably cheeky: in jumpsuits, cardigans, ballet pumps and neon make up. Her hair is lemon blonde streaked with black. Uneven in length too, falling out of a messy bun.

But the professional Marion is bureaucratically immaculate. Cold, composed, brusquely efficient. Trademark red robes, kitten heels (try to make me look older to visitors) "natural healthy-looking" and dyed ash blonde hair. (Three layers of hair dye.) It's in a chignon, not a hair out of place. She is a subordinate to her colleagues, dependant on their good will. Why give an opinion when it will only be ignored?

"Morning Weasley," I say carelessly, not bothering to look up. "Kingsley wants to speak with you. I'm also required-"

"To represent the Auror Office, I know," Arthur says back, feigning exasperation. I tidy my desk with a sweep of my wand and look up to see Harry staring at me like I'm some kind of mutation of the tooth fairy.

The memo flutters in the moment they leave. What on earth is Fudge playing at? Eight o'clock, down in old Courtroom Ten, no less! So pointless. There was no problem with Madam Bones' office. I leave a message with Sue; and head on down. I forwarded the memo to Arthur but I doubt he'll get it anyway. The system is slow and congested lately, again thanks to Magical Maintenance; it takes ten minutes for a memo just to go from one department to another. One memo took two and quarter hours! I thought magic was supposed to get results _quicker_.

I get more familiar as I get closer. I can almost hear the cat callings, the jeering, the taunts and the insults.

"Liar! Liar! Liar!"

"Cursed brats!"

"Kill 'em all!"

"Push 'em through the veil!"

"Justice for all, I say."

"Give them school? Nonsense, they don't deserve that!"

"What about William Mons? He died 'cause of them!"

"Lock the brats up!" "String 'em up!"

Unkind words from a world that doesn't care. For a six year old, I was hated and despised. The spoken and unspoken prejudices of mankind's judgement and folly. Hate me, more vehemently than some Death Eaters. Once again I must encounter the wizarding legal system, full of elitism and corruption, favouring those who fit the ideal and eschewing those who don't. Like me. This goes on, before and after me. A vicious circle of intolerance, benefitting some and bringing despair on others. You can't know it until you see it; and when you see it you can't bear to know.

I enter hell. A place where justice isn't blind; and isn't true.

It's the same people. Fudge and Umbridge, the terrible two and those like Madam Bones. Their good hearts don't let them see the harm of the others.

I take my seat at the side, eagle eyes watching me as always. I can't stand to look at Fudge, look squarely in the face of a fool who can't understand people who are different. I still haven't forgotten what he's done, or what he could do. I won't forget what he did to me and my sister. And what he didn't do to so many others who now walk free and favoured. For once forgiveness lets me down. Forgiveness like Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle and Rowle. Those too rich, too generous, too unwavering in bare-faced flattery to ever _possibly _do wrong. Only Barty Crouch Senior and Madam Bones ever had enough sense to do their jobs, though both were mistaken about this "beneficial" system.

Rowle lurks behind bars, an intangible threat. And he will haunt my dreams until the day I die.

Welcome, Harry Potter. Welcome to hell.

Later

"We haven't got time to listen to more tarradiddles, Dumbledore, I want this dealt with quickly-"

I can't stop rolling my eyes at that. Why bother with legal procedure if he will only cut it short?

How dare he ignore the Wizengamot Charter of Rights! How dare he ignore the greatest of human laws! A human is a human and has the right to be seen as a human! I bristle with indignation. It was bad enough earlier, with Fudge intercutting Harry whenever he saw a chance. The term is interrogation, not interruption though that seems to matter so little now. The laws are changed to the will of the Minister, to suit the times. A crime is a crime if the Minister decides that it is a crime. Right and wrong don't come into it. Harry has been let off charges before, but now the subject is brought up in an attempt to support the argument. The Daily Prophet says what the Minister wants it to say. Small mercy that most of the Wizengamot listen to their consciences. You are either rich or honest in the Ministry.

Harry is holding well under fire. At least their questions are in a language that he understands. He defends himself well, if ineloquently. I can tell he's getting frustrated with this. Time is better spent solving problems not going around in circles collecting more money along the way.

Now it's Mrs Figg's turn to face the lions. Anyone can get riled with Fudge getting under their skin, but Mrs Figg knows how to stand up for herself.

Before I really begin to despair with universe and slam head against the jury bench screaming to hurry up I'm dying of suspense over here; it's voting time.

"Those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?"

Despite furious glares from Umbridge, I raise my hand nonchalantly, as though I hadn't known I would be voting to clear him since it all b****y happened. She can go eat flies, (or Doxy eggs- either suit me) because my vote counts as much as anybody else's. Fudge can't complain, I'm Scrimgeour's choice, and he's warming up to me a bit more now.

Everyone starts weeping out. I know he can't act any other way in public, but I do feel slightly stung as Albus glides past as though I'm just another person, another Child Auror.

Malfoy's been talking to Fudge. Again. They're going to his office, so I dawdle outside, ignored by passersby to eavesdrop on the conversation. Sadly, it's all humdrum stuff, no Imperiusing or anything I could manage an arrest for. Pity. I hate the Malfoys, the slimy worms. Fingers in every pie, money in every pocket. Dead fish go with the flow, so Lucius is a big rotten one. Always in the right, is Lucius.

Despite Malfoy's looming presence everywhere, there's a spring in my step today. We have the power to make things right.


	9. A Grim Prophecy

_1__st__ September 1995_

How quickly things can change. This morning, at half past five, Joanie still sleeping tear-soaked dreams away, I was painting a watercolour of the Weald of Kent (La Duchesse de la Bourgeoise safely tucked away) in the kitchen, drinking blackcurrant tea and letting my thoughts take me far away from our fickle world and its tangible inconsistencies, to a place- I can't even describe it! Some things don't fit words. I see the future, the past, mysteries incomprehendible, and my little mind swells with it all.

My thoughts seem to gather, drift and yet also not drift in front of my very eyes. Clouds yet mists of gas yet non-gas, like in a pensieve. Tangible, yet intangible, tasteless yet flavourful, colourless yet vibrant.

It's one of those trances. I hadn't had one for a while. My head seems to float away. Nonsense makes sense. I flit in and out of time and sequence. My eyes blur in and out of focus. I feel light-headed, but strangely solid. These trances are something about me that I don't understand- and I've had at least ten years to get used to me. When I spent my days on the Yorkshire moors, away from the pain and the anguish of the place that I had to call home. I learned deception in my smiles; I learned to read through gravestones. I learned agony at my father's knee, and despair at my mother's. I never needed to learn pain.

I had visions every day, on those empty moors. I prayed for hope; but not for me the happy rescue. I'm no damsel. I fight my way out. One vision lasted six hours. I almost went mad.

Oh wait. I am mad.

I see blood, and I see pain. Strangely though, Umbridge isn't anywhere to be seen. I see a man, alert. Fear has sharpened his senses, his senses heighten the fear. A flash of red, and he is quivering. But who is it?

But whatever peace of mind I had at half five has vanished now, like the water on my painting. My melancholy ramblings have been drowned out by a cacophony of ambient _noise._ The early bird doesn't just catch the worm, he gets some peace and quiet while he's at it.

Grimmauld Place is in uproar. It feels like a warzone already. Fred and George are causing mayhem (I do admit, I'd be worried if they weren't) and Molly and Mrs. Black are sounding off about everything. I should really bring earmuffs into this house.

Everyone's running around like headless chickens. I hide my face in my book (The Ancient Mariner) and smile. Ron's acting like it's so ridiculously early in the morning, plus he can't find any of his stuff. Harry's not even up yet. Will not say anything, I promise!

He's up now. Hallelujah, praise the skies. Now things can actually happen.

I want to laugh now. Tonks has arrived in full old lady get up. She's leaning against the wall, casually painting her nails, just as though chaos _isn't_ reigning around her. Mrs Black's screeching in her ear and she doesn't even flinch. Any minute now she'll knock over something it all will go pear-shaped, but I savour the moment.

Careful George, those trunks-!

Too late. Now Ginny's clattering down the stairs and Mrs Black sees just how much noise she can get away with. Good morning to you too, Mrs Black.

Sturgis _still _isn't here. Moody's complaining about him and refuses to leave. Because the guard is one short. One. And it's huge anyway.

Finally, finally we get a move on.

When I leave that stuffy old house, that dinosaur of a network of stifling and empty, lonely rooms I can see just why Sirius wants to get out of there. He needs to be free, his talents employed. Maybe, for one day, I can let my guard down. Maybe smile, and Sirius can smile too. Or grin. Or whatever dogs do when they're happy.

I walk with him in full doggy get up, almost as big as me, down the street. See? Nothing to worry about. Blissfully uneventful.

It's a beautiful place, Kings Cross Station. All the big windows. They must be a nightmare to clean without magic, but it makes the station so light and open. You feel you could board a train, go anywhere, and be anyone. Of course, not many people would think that. But for a girl who lives in the shadows, the light is something truly wonderful.

We spend a lot of time just hanging around, with Moody covering his magical eye with a hat. He looks so delightfully grumpy my fingers are itching for my camera. I'd take a photograph, but then he would probably hex me discreetly when nobody was looking. He's a master for discretion. To my delight, Neville is there already and I greet him with a kiss on the cheek, which he returns readily. We banter for a bit, as old friends always do, and then once again he is taken from me. I can only wait now, for his letters.

The train arrives, and my goodbyes catch in my throat. I bring out my handkerchief to wave them off. Not a white one like they always wave in those Muggle films- no; that would get horribly dirty from the train. I reach for a lilac one instead. Not goodbye; merely farewell for the moment. As the train pulls away, I realise that this is how it is for them, and will be. How lucky some people are: new education, new future. A consistent, potentially long life. I feel sad to lose them, but glad of what they can have. I don't suppose they will miss me. Give it a couple of months; and should I die, they may not even remember, as that funny girl from the Order.

They are off North to Scotland, where the ones I love live happy and free. Where Albus is; and where safety is something you know, not something you run to.

I turn back, away from the happy scene, to an old house and an old problem.

_3__rd__ September_

First letter from Hogwarts, where I most certainly have not been forgotten. It's signed from Albus, but I can almost hear Neville's voice telling me the news.

It seems that Dolores Umbridge, the opportunistic, unscrupulous Dolores Umbridge, is the new professor of Defence against the Dark Arts. What an interesting perspective, to be the thing you teach. I far preferred the nasty little bureaucrat where she was- squirming and simpering next to Fudge. Where I could an eye on her- where Tonks, Kingsley, Arthur, Moody, Joanie and I could keep her collected eyes on her. Far away in Scotland, who knows what she will do? Young, impressionable minds. With any luck they will find her as repulsive as I do. But what of Draco Malfoy? For all his father's vile nature, and the turncoat attitude to politics his family takes, I bear little resentment to Draco Malfoy. He almost amuses me, with her materialism, shallowness and pure ego. But Umbridge could turn him very nasty indeed. I don't want that for him. I want him to grow up unencumbered by the likes of her, for she is three steps away from being a Death Eater.

_17__th__ September_

We visit Adelaide frequently, Joanie and I. She is getting stronger every time I see her. To watch her grow is to watch a sunflower blossom and bloom towards the sun. She smiles at me; and I would but love her forever. She laughs, and I would do anything for that little laugh.

Joanie is a brilliant mother, who croons with delight to see her treasure. I watch her sleep in her little rocking cradle. I hold her when she cries, I tickle her and she gurgles that laugh out again. If I had to hunch over in the little chair by the cradle, I would protect her. If I had to fight a rank of Death Eaters to preserve that sleep, I would. She can dream for hours and hours. I toss and turn in waking nightmares.

_24__th__ September_

I did not intend to write today, but the situation has become urgent.

After less than a month after becoming professor, and Umbridge is meddling, meddling already. That woman is unstoppable.

Not only that, but I have read some awful things in the Prophet. Behind all of the bumpf of the biasedness of the smear campaign against Harry and Dumbledore, is the news that there have been rumours regarding Sirius' whereabouts. Despite Kingsley's continual efforts to keep Sirius supposed hiding place out of England- he is rumoured to be in London. London! His old family house is the first place they will investigate. We are stuck. We cannot move Sirius, and Kreacher knows enough evidence to incriminate Sirius, which he would gladly do.

I was with Sirius that day in London. When Lucius Malfoy saw him. The Malfoys hate me, though I have done no wrong. If they find out I've been hiding Sirius all this time, it will be Azkaban, for certain. And the Dementors, the Dementors! They know no mercy. What would they do to a weak little girl, with a bad past and guilt that infects her waking moments? When every day she wakes to a world that leaves her hands stained with blood, and her heart despairing of any future. I'd never leave the prison alive.

And the Order cannot stop an arrest. Sturgis has been taken to Azkaban for six months, for trying to enter the Department of Mysteries. I tried. I tried so hard in court. I nearly had them convinced. But he was Imperiused and nothing I said would get him to even plead innocent. He's a shadow of his confident self. His eyes are glazed over and we went without a word in his own defence.

Sirius is more vulnerable now than ever. He is the weak link, the loose end to be snipped. He is dear to Harry, who will do anything for him. The Order is a chain of tightly linked people. It's a chain Voldemort will tug and pull at until the weak link is shattered and the rest of the chain is breaking up.

I care about Harry just as much as Sirius does, and would risk as much. But I am acknowledged as a person by the Ministry. Most of them dislike my existence, the rest would give an arm and a leg and maybe a wand as well to see me six foot underground, preferably deeper with a stake through my heart. But however unwilling they are, if I go missing my friends, family and colleagues can look for me- or at least bring back my body.

But Sirius is already missing, and only a handful of people know where he is. We can't rescue him without Ministry help, and that would condemn him. We also can't afford Sirius as a hostage. Sirius needs to control Kreacher, he's the only one who can legally. Kreacher and Sirius are tightly linked in this game of fate.

Why can't Fudge realise what Umbridge is? If he wants proof, he can just look at those cardigans! What sane person wears them?

Or he could ask the Child Workers, the so called "summer interns." The average life expectancy has dropped to under 30, for them.

My suspicions are confirmed with proof. I have had another vision.

Last night I saw deep fogs of mist, curling and drifting, to show a fluttering wailing curtain, like a veil. Then I saw a big black dog, a Grim. He howled, and then a flash of light silenced him. He dissolved into the mist, consumed by it. And there were nine crows circling overhead, mocking and laughing...

Perhaps I should say it as I wrote it in my book of prophecies.

_Seven cruel blows_

_Nine mocking crows_

_One prophecy to tell the past_

_One veil to take the last_

_And as the lights flicker dim_

_One death, one indomitable Grim._

I know who it means. Sirius.


	10. Love's Warnings Lost

_18th December 1995_

We are all to have Christmas at Grimmauld this year. Sirius, generously hospitable as he is, pulls out all the stops to cheer up this grim and Dark house, which he despises so vehemently. Joanie doesn't really want to come, as she feels a deep attachment to Adelaide. I won't have Adela coming to this house, it's dank and it's damp and though she may be healthy I shan't risk it.

So that leaves me to deliver Yuletide greetings and presents. I try to help Sirius in his valiant efforts to brighten the house, and so I brought in a dozen Santa hats (Minty has too many of these...) and put them on the house elf heads, including the one that Walburga Black knocked the nose off when she returned my throwing knife throw unconventional methods (threw it at my head- and missed). None of the heads look too happy at their new makeover, but now they're dead, they're free.

Sirius is singing "God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs". Out of tune. Again.

_23__rd__ December_

I'm getting really worried. I've been to Grimmauld Place three times over the past few days, and yet not once have I seen Kreacher. Where can he have got to? I know Sirius shouted at him "to get out" but surely he can't have taken it so literally? Maybe he did. Either way, I must talk to Sirius about it.

Christmas Eve 1995

I have kept this diary for six months now, and I have to grown to love this old notebook, containing my silly whimsical notations and rants as dearly as a part of me. I have been the only one to have read it, and it's too private to share; although perhaps one day Adela will read it herself.

We took her tobogganing in Tetreton Park today, as the snow was still fresh and cold. She was delighted by the sight of it, not quite so happy when she found it was cold. Joanie and I practiced out Warming Charms on her mittens, which she was happy to participate in. Back to our house for hot chocolate and marshmallows and a quite day, mother and child reunited, La Duchesse housed in her fine new frame and spoiled rotten by her fellow portraits. I put my feet up to the heater and confide in you, diary.

It's these times that send me into trances- or into passionate opinion. So be patient, for I do tend to get carried along by waves of ideals!

The Willy Widdershins ordeal still irks me, because justice and an equal playing field is core to my heart, to who I am. His crime and his lack of repentance tugs at my very heartstrings, and it is the greatest insult he can give me. I did not decide to devote my life in servitude to the law and the capture of criminals so that they would walk free while my fellow children suffered, risked, died. Call me an insolent child, call me a dirty child, call me spawn of the devil and I shall say what I will. But hurt the innocent, and turn a blind eye to a degrading injustice; and you will invoke my unbridled emotions.

People have the ability to be so different, yet we are all one habitat of peoples, one earth. There are similarities in all peoples of all powers, all minds. We are souls. We may not be equal economically, and never will be, and some minds will always be sharper than others, we are not the same and can never be made to be. A square peg will not fit a round hole. But yet we are equal. We are people, and always will be. What is the real difference, between a muggle born and a "pure blood"? Prejudice is the child of ignorance. You don't have to perform magic to be special, or even be respected. If you are true to yourself and true to what you believe in, what more do you need to be?

_Christmas Day, 1995_

_Peace on Earth, good will to all mankind_

_Because you're not going to get it any other day of the year, sunshine!_

My 12th Christmas, so I must be at least eleven now- "legs eleven" as my neighbour Polly calls it. Joanie woke me up- somewhat uncomfortably, at half past five, as excitable as any child. This is role reversal, as I am normally the early bird.

I pack and get ready to head to London early, and Joanie strolls around casually making tea. Joanie and I exchanged gifts last night, so I am proudly wearing a pair of new pink legwarmers over my thin shoes. I gave Joan a purple tiered velvet skirt that made her cry. She hasn't worn skirts since she was a wife.

The Order's Christmas decorations have changed the house so much; and I can't believe it is actually the same house that houses only misfortune and an underground resistance movement, forced to resist Voldemort and the Ministry's stubborn denial (Fudge continues to confuse stubbornness with strength). Now, I can feel happy here.

Christmas presents all around: for Harry, a poster of "20 Unusual Hexes and Jinxes Your Opponent is Unlikely to Know the Counter Curse to" I made it myself, and came up with over sixty, but put the simplest to use down. Ron- polish for his fine new Cleansweep, Hermione, new quills in various sizes, Tonks some Muggle nail polish that changes colour according to your mood (turned bubblegum pink straight away) Sirius: 1984 by George Orwell. Thought the Muggle references would amuse him, maybe that he might even learn something from it, realise what Albus is trying to do. A book is the subtlest way of getting someone to learn something.

All was going well, until I let fear drive me too far; and it almost cost me a friend.

"Where's Kreacher?" I asked Sirius.

"I don't know," he says, carelessly.

I feel myself flood with panic.

"I haven't seen him for days."

"Neither have I. I'm sure he's just around somewhere."

I erupt.

"That's not enough! Where did you order him? You told him to get out!"

"He's bound to the family."

"Yes, he can take orders from anyone in the family and judging from experience with your mother's portrait alone, they are not the kind of people he should be talking to!"

The colour drains from Sirius' face. I've gone too far, crossed the unspeakable line, but I can't stop. I can't make myself stop; I care too much not to warn.

"He knows too much. We should have wiped his memory completely, and kept on wiping it. The moment he returns from this little escapade, question him, make him tell the truth!"

"You're nagging" he spits at me.

"I'm not nagging!"

"Yes, you are! For God's sake, it's Christmas, quit bugging me!"

I try to reach to him, but he brushes me off.

"You're the weak link Sirius!" I wail. "The Ministry doesn't know where you are. It doesn't even recognise your existence. If you fall ill, we cannot get you to a Healer. We cannot get you to hospital without arousing suspicion. If you go missing, we can't get the Ministry to look for you without returning you to Azkaban!"

He turns, icily.

"I'll die before I go back there," he says, cold enough to make me shiver.

And then he leaves me, without a backwards glance, I am only able to bury my head on the dusty sofa and dissolve into tears.

Seeing my wan face after an hour he picks me up and gives me a hug. I give him a pack of custard creams from my bag, as a peace offering.

He smiles. "Not ginger Newts?"

"Certainly not" I say stoutly, but giddy from his forgiveness "ginger biscuits are evil."

He laughs and together we rejoin the party. I am glad we are friends again, but I stand by what I said, though it was unfair of me to talk about it on Christmas Day. But the Dark Arts wait for no-one.

Later

The Yuletide is going fast now that the Day has ended, and the afternoon at the Staffords' was far more joyous and complacent. We are sore from laughter; and giggly from Benny's Firewhisky which tasted very nice with peach and lime juice.

I can't get Adela's smiling, rosy cheeked face from my head. She'll grow up to be happy, and a merry witch of the light, not troubled by my gift of the Sight or Joanie's death threats. She will be bright and cheerful, even with war pending and a mother and aunt up to their necks in conspiracy. She will be happy, even though Joanie and I are still so sad.

I have had more frequent and chilling visions of the prophecy, of the veil, the crows- and the vanishing Grim. I'm more afraid for Sirius than he is. And one way or another, a prophecy must come true.

_Boxing Day, 1995_

I sat in a dark corner, lit by only a few hovering candles. I sat in a black wood carved chair, and Kreacher came before me. It looked a very picture of hierarchy.

"Where have you been?" I asked of him, a little too sharply.

"In the attic." Was all he said. It may have been enough for Sirius, but not enough for me.

"As ever," I said bitterly.

He shrugged, a very human gesture. But then I did something without thinking, which was pure human instinct. I left my stiff chair and knelt before Kreacher, so that for the first time, I was on his level, and looked into his eyes. Outcast to outcast.

"I'm not different, Kreacher" and then I bent forward over my knees, so he was above me, and I was bowed before his feet.

But then, out of character, his bony hand reached out and lifted me up by my elbow, so that I was looking into his eyes once more, and we were direct with each other. He smiled, and neither of us said anything. In fact, I don't think he spoken to me for the rest of the day.

_27__th__ December _

Sirius is getting grumpy again. Molly calls it "fits of the sullens." I wish he could come out of Buckbeak's room and talk to me. He's making it worse.

_28__th__ December_

I am a pathetic wretch! A powerless creature! I am that, or I am a firebrand, a motormouth, too chatty, too cheeky to ever be trusted. And my call to alarm is to call wolf, and answered with a sharp blow; and with it, humiliation.

I am banned from 's.

I was up on level 5, spell Damage, delivering a report to the Chief Healer regarding the insurance of one of our Child Aurors, who lost a leg. Pointless, he'll get no money for it.

But I paused, and a slithering plant in a nearby pot set the gooseflesh creeping up my arms. The sirens, screaming in my head, set me off. Devil's Snare. It must have been disguised as that Flitterbloom, because that is Devil's Snare.

It was right next to Bode's bed, and as he reached out to touch it, I smacked his hand away. When I saw his confused face, I realised. And I screamed.

I heard shouts, furious hisses, footsteps from behind me. But my vision is focussed on one thing. That plant. I have to destroy it, it must not stay there, a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.

Could go off at any time.

I frantically try to communicate with Bode, my nose inches from his, but he's as blank as a sheet. I am incomprehensible, panic sending streams of Welsh and English at equal speeds out of my mouth. I snatch for my wand, fingers trembling, fingers snatching for it.

But before I can complete the spell, hands reach around my waist, my mouth and I am dragged kicking and screaming. No!

"You have to kill the plant - yn rhaid i chi lladd y planhigyn, rhaid dinistrio! Now! It's going to kill him, arbed iddo!"

"Don't be ridiculous, silly girl! It's a _Flitterbloom _anyone can see that. Come quietly now, you're disturbing the other patients."

"But you don't understand, it's Devil's Snare, it could kill-"

"I am well aware of the dangers of Devil's Snare," says Healer Strout, "I can also recognise it. There is no Devil's Snare, but there is a Flitterbloom. I have studied Herbology for far longer than you possibly can. I know more about any plant than you do. Now please leave and don't come back until further notice."

Then magical Security comes behind me and I am dragged unceremoniously down the stairs, the glares of disapproving visitors blazing behind me. The WelcomeWitch is shaking her head. Beneath my scream I can hear "It's disgraceful" and "Who does she think she is?"

A question I cannot answer.

I am cast out, words of eviction ringing in my ears, my cheeks aflame. I am shamed, I am downtrodden. Give me strength to climb back up.

_2__nd__ January 1996_

A new day, a new term, a new year! Harry returns to troublesome Umbridge, and Neville's continual letter sending throughout the holidays will have to stop now that the old hag is dabbing her nose into everything. I'll not have that old toad reading my personal letters. Partly because I undermine her power at Hogwarts, and partly because I'm not entirely complimentary about her. (Well, I say what I think.)

I'm concerned about Harry's Occlumency lessons- Albus has somewhat unusually unwisely of him, chosen Snape as a teacher. He is skilled, but he is a double agent. Playing the double agent in this most dangerous game can be very difficult. The problem with being a double agent is that it can get very confusing at times. But to serve two masters, and being able to serve two masters at the same time when both want different things is extremely risky. How can Albus expect a Potter and a Snape to get along? It is ridiculous. We squabble amongst ourselves, when we should be united; how can we defend against Voldemort- who himself demands obedience until death, when we cannot agree on anything without snide comments and doubted loyalties.

Either way, something will go wrong in this idea, and Albus knows my mind on this. I love him, as a daughter does. I do not question my allegiance with him, but I will always think twice before I perform his orders. Normally, I go along with his plans, for though the risk there is gain to be had.

But he could get it wrong.

I like Stan Shunpike too, as we take him [Harry Potter] back through the Knight Bus. Stan is a bit slow, but you must never ignore the lesser people. Just because someone does the cleaning, or a task you deem menial, does not make them any less worthy as people. I certainly think more highly of him than half of the Ministry, whose only aim in life seems to be to increase the size of their ministerial department.

I didn't get much time to chat to him, because of Madam Marsh's stomach misbehaving. And anyhow, standing on the Knight Bus isn't much fun. You stagger and sway like a drunk on Firewhisky.


	11. Of Mermaids and Murderers

_6__th__ January 1996_

It can't have happened. It cannot be. This mustn't be happening. And yet it goes on.

The worst news since Voldemort's return, and I have received this news sitting at the kitchen table at home, surrounded by tea and jam. At first I began this day unaware completely unaware that everything I had was in jeopardy. My diary, my sister, Adelaide- my own life. This is more than terrible, and I feel my mortality more than ever. How can I be safe now? I cannot ever be. Mayhap he is coming for me now, to return me to my mother's arms.

Not when my father, my murderous, cruel father is alive, on the loose- with nine others. This is too catastrophic to put in words, but I'll try. I look at the pictures on the front cover of the Prophet and I know, I truly know, that my days are numbered, possibly getting even to single digits.

MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN

MINISTRY FEARS BLACK IS "RALLYING POINT"

FOR OLD DEATH EATERS

Fourteen words, and all is lost; my life is changed. When people see me, in the street (having never travelled by car) will they see a dead girl? Who knows how long I have left? Every day could be my last.

This is no longer the diary of a young girl. It's the diary of someone who has had a Last Will and Testament prepared since the age of eight. Ten chief Death Eaters free from imprisonment will not just "blow over." It'll cost lives to put them back in gaol. Maybe my life too.

But to ordinary witches and wizards, will their fear be as great? Maybe they'll sit and worry and pace up and down, crying in hysterics as their death warrant is put into print, or perhaps they will wrap it around hot chips, not even look at it, sip their pumpkin juice and never let it bother them. They'll live longer and never know.

People say I should be glad that the news is even out. That I can even know that my father is on the loose and he isn't content with the murder of his own wife, three of his own children when they were infants, or the mindless massacre of an entire Muggle village.

Because nobody lives in Ruttenham on Sea anymore.

And then, tucked at the bottom of the paper, is a piece of news that will add Broderick Bode to my list of sleepless nights of the people I have killed, lost or failed to save.

Murdered. Strangled to death, by his own pot plant. I didn't technically take his life, but my inaction condemned him.

But I must carry on, as if this is nothing, a woman of stone and not a girl of glass.

I don't think for one moment that it was Strout. The look in her eyes was genuine confusion and concern for the patients. If I am called to defend her, I will.

Dumbledore intends me to go to the merpeople, and try to get something good out of all this. Just in time, as Umbridge is steadily turning against Dumbledore. The best season for conferencing will come soon; I have consulted the stars, predicted through my vague arts the best time to make my bid for their support. With them on our side, we will control the rivers and seas. Judging by Hagrid's not entirely positive reception, we need to get as many people on our side as possible.

I must do this.

_9__th__ January 1996_

My bid for reinforcements. I have prepared myself, and I am ready to ply my trade for sweet talking.

Joanie pins a brooch; a silver bird with a pearl pinched in its beak, over the loose blue silk that falls leaving my cold shoulder exposed. She feels me shiver at an unknown cold and she looks in my eyes.

"Go forth, Marion," she said. "I'm with you."

I run to her, and cling to her as tender and vulnerable as Adelaide. She is a woman of fire, a woman of earth and stability. I am a girl of water and air, one insubstantial and as fragile as porcelain china.

Drop me, and I'll break.

It was dusk when I Apparated to the Lake District, the most concentrated Merpeople population in all of England. There are many at the Hogwarts Lake, but I can't risk it while Umbridge is there. The shock of seeing me, her despised colleague, might prove to be much for her, and she may drop dead from the strain. And as much as that would personally please me, it may not be in Albus' favour.

And also, I can tell by the uncomfortable emptiness on my person; that I have deliberately left my wand at home. No Death Eater would ever be caught with a wand, and it will give me a diplomatic advantage if I am seen to trust the Merpeople enough to approach them defenceless.

And worse comes to the worse, there's some magic I can do without a wand.

Carefully, I slide into the lake with the most light reflecting off it that I can see, and wade through until I am up to my heart. My skirts, wild blue in the water, feel much like a mermaid's tail. It's freezing cold in the water, but I have the feeling that you can have where you feel so cold it's almost as if you can't get any colder.

And slowly, tentative in the crisp air, I begin to sing.

_My loved one's in danger_

_I am forced to flee_

_But I want to be safe_

_And I want to be free_

_I take my solace_

_In the deep green waves_

_Is there safety, ever?_

_From villains or knaves?_

_Drown me, glistening waters_

_My love has gone from me_

_And I will not be safe_

_If I cannot be free_

_Lay me in the oozy bed_

_Take all life from me_

_For I would far rather be dead_

_And then I will be free_

I sing it once, twice, three times. I end the fourth verse of my fourth repetition with a high fluting note that echoes through the hills.

I wait. And then they come for me, as prophetic as my song, glistening as they rise, silently and majestically towards me. They may not be the superficiality that the Ministry calls "beauty" but I think they are. They are wild, untamed, and unanswerable. I have chosen a formidable ally. How can one ever look powerful with these haunting sirens? I do not think of such things, but I have created my own violence. It's what comes with being a duellist. And maybe the throwing knives that I use to capture or injure. Maybe that also is slightly intimidating.

I lick my lips and recite, as best I can, the ten-minute Mermish speech that Albus taught me. I am a little shaky in the pronunciation, and I am praying that Mermish does not have any awkward words with double meanings, like in English or other human languages. But the Merpeople seem reasonably impressed that a witch should take it upon herself to learn (but a little) of their tongue. They look me up and down, as one would a fine trout or plump haddock. One, the mermaid on the left of the leader of the gathering, prods me with one long finger and I can tell, by the expressions, that they know that I am unarmed. It seems that my appearance and choice of words have given me some standing. The leader peers into my face as if she would figure me out, like a puzzle.

The merpeople talk amongst themselves, and I wish I could know what they are saying. I shift from foot to foot; though I am accustomed to waiting for long periods it doesn't mean I like to; and my toes are going numb.

The leader looks at me more thoroughly this time, after the advice of her fellows, and she points to my throat.

Speak.

So I do. As easily as if I was a fairground machine, and she had slotted in a penny. I try to explain, as best I can, how I feel. And after a long while; of mime, infrequent Mermish phrases and praying that it will all work, I feel that at least it may have been worth it.

The leader looks on me more kindly, and raises her hand. A scroll of a strange rough paper, and a heron's feather quill. She signs her name with a flourish and hands it to me.

"_Dumbledore" _she rasps. And that's one word we all understand.

I promise it to take it to him, and she nods.

The last thing she did, before she vanished under the water- she pointed at me. At my brooch, the bird with the pearl, and she said something strange. I couldn't catch it, but the pearl glowed with a strange bright light. I'll have to ask Dumbledore what she did, because before I could, she was gone and I was left alone with the letter and some fervent hope of a friendship.

I walked through a forest a good distance away, as I heard it was called the New Forest, and there are so many things I would like to make anew.

Tired, but not sleepy, I perched at the base of a chestnut tree that sent a swarm of nuts cluttering onto my cranium at regular intervals, a strange but nonchalant frequency.

I couldn't be sure, at first, what the creature was, with its lovely head bowed humble over the soft ground, its hooves remaining- for a moment only, before fading away. It was fresh, and bright, and I would but have stayed there forever, content merely to behold such a creature. It was a thing of beauty; a stunning creature. A turn of the head- a silvery horn.

A unicorn. I have only heard of it in fanciful books. I have thought of them well, but never before have I seen one. They won't exaggerate when they spoke of such beauty. Timeless elegance and it pangs me to think of someone slaying this wonderful animal- to drink its blood! How could anybody do such a thing? For such a pure, clean thing – no matter how much you want immortality, would you really go that for? I would not. For I may have eternity, but I would not have it spent mourning how I got there, or what I had to do. A half-life, just that.

I hold out my hand, a chestnut cradled in the palm. I feel rather standoffish, just sitting here, an arm raised to one side-

But he comes to me, his strong neck outstretched, bidding me to feed him the chestnut. Then he yawns, and without a hesitance lays his head in my lap. I stroke his mane of gossamer fine hair and learn to sleep, without fear of discovery or danger, with my head dangling over my sleeping unicorn.

_The following day_

Albus seemed pleased to see the letter, remarking it to be: "most splendid". Even more so when I show him my brooch. He positively beamed.

"Excellent," He said, with a mutual satisfaction present.

"That pearl has a particularly Mermish charm on it. You will be able to know immediately when there is a fight or where your help would be appreciated. Through this you can command armies."

I cupped the little brooch in my hand, unable to speak. This is barely worth a Galleon, but the power bestowed upon it- somewhat unexpected on my part, is unimaginable.

If the Merpeople are truly on our side, then perhaps I have achieved something; in my own little way. Maybe reason can triumph, even in these brutal times. I have gained something for the Order: safe passage through the rivers and waterways from John O'Groats to Land's End.

But once I have captured the fortress, I must keep it.


	12. Open Disguise

_27th February_

More visions, adding to the Grim. I saw a prophecy, shattering over and over again, and the impact sent reverberations through my brain. I still can't walk straight from the shock. I saw a venomous scorpion, crushed by a proud hoof, only to re-appear unscathed. I would not know to whom it referred, were the scorpion not pink.

I have not tried to warn Sirius since. The humiliation of being kicked out of 's has made me a scalded cat still. He noticed my diary filling up, and gave me a shiny red notebook with a watercolour of a cow on the front.

"A portrait of your dear mama?" I said. "I can't handle her, even in miniature."

"Indeed." He said back, unsmiling.

I can only wait, in hopelessness.

_9__th__ March_

Sturgis has been released. He has returned back to the Order, shaken and sheepish. I don't think he'll find much Order work anymore.

_13__th__ April 1996_

So much to tell you! My mind reels with the sheer weight of it all. My emotions are all jumbled up. I feel a bizarre sense of elation, contradicted by a stronger prudence of fear and worry.

Harry's little Defence Group has been snitched to Umbridge. I thought it would be an internal matter, but Kingsley, the hairy thing (sorry, meant Dawlish!) and I were summoned to escort the Minister himself! I was wary throughout the journey. Meetings between the Ministry and Dumbledore ne'er go well for me. If a man cannot truly serve two masters, how much harder is it going to be for a child?

I feel as stiff as my formal robes, worn only for special occasions, far too formal for back office. I remain that way as we stride through Hogwarts, en route to the Headmaster's Office. Once inside, I position myself behind the Headmaster's chair, as though to keep an eye on him and Minerva. The other two stand by the door. Fudge nods approvingly at our formation: we have the whole room covered.

Fudge is triumphant but the portraits all around the walls seem to be mirroring pretty much what I'm thinking.

"Well, Potter, I expect you know why you are here?"

Harry looks in two minds as how to respond to this stupid question. So he decides to pretend not to know, and this enrages Fudge. Under my set face anxiety burns. Where _is _Neville? I could not bear to see him in trouble, knowing that I can only stand and watch, motionless, unable to stop undeniable events.

I must confess, when Umbridge insists on bringing the "informant" that it is Marietta Edgecombe, face in hands. I feel a wave of pity as Umbridge fusses over her and tries to coax her further. Why can't she leave a poor girl alone? Why can't she leave _anyone _alone?

And then she shows her face; and this overwhelms me, and I am puzzled into confusion. I need to asp but I know that if I do so, I might be sick.

Purple pustules. All over her ashamed face, spelling one word.

Sneak.

The Minister asks for a counter jinx, but Umbridge knows of none. I shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. I can think of six possible options.

So Umbridge continues her boast, in fact she enjoys it. According to her, they found about the meeting in the Hog's Head. I know Dung was the veiled witch (a fine woman he does make) so who was Mr Bandages?

Willy Widdershins. Of course. When I next meet him I shall greet him in the traditional Muggle fashion- a punch in the face. Out of courtesy, of course.

Dumbledore tries to talk Harry out of it, but I cannot see how. I know these meetings well. I even helped out once or twice, in the early days before Harry got the hang of it.

Percy Weasley makes some stupid comment and I want to cuff him one too.

So, if the Hog's Head meeting was before the groups were illegal, what about the meetings since?

What about me.

I can remain still no longer. I cannot remain observant but as cold and dispassionate as a caryatid. I look up at Kingsley and we know what to do.

I wipe Marietta's memory, wandlessly and without a sound, while Kingsley confounds her. And not a soul notices. And it works. She is shaking her head. Despite their best but futile efforts, she denies what they say.

But relief does not last. And a list is produced before I have a chance to destroy it or forge a blameless copy. A list of names.

Dumbledore's Army. Oh ****.

Albus has one option left, or everything sinks beneath our feet and I can only tread water for so long. And when Umbridge comes back to work at the Ministry, I will spit in her coffee when she forces me to make it for her. This is all revenge for me, for all her spite because she didn't get her way with Trelawney.

Albus admits, quite cheerfully, to whatever Fudge says and I can see where he is going with this. I can only hope that his plan will succeed, as it always has done.

And it does. The patient readily swallows the medicine like the fish tries to make off with the bait. All we need is to stand back and await the drug's effects.

But even so my anger itches when Fudge speaks of sedition. Sedition? A fig for sedition! I am more seditious than he. But if it [sedition] is a sharp distaste to Fudge then I shall gladly be so, come what may.

I wrote down what Dumbledore said next, because it intrigued me.

"_You seem to be labouring under the illusion that I will- the phrase? - Come quietly. I am afraid that I will not come quietly at all Cornelius. I have absolutely no intention of going to Azkaban. I could break out, of course, but what a waste of time and frankly, I can think of a whole host of things that I would rather be doing."_

He continues.

"_Don't be silly, Dawlish. I am sure you are an excellent Auror _(No Albus he isn't) _but I will have to hurt you. "_

I feel a bit sorry for Dawlish. There. I said it. You can throw the book in frustration at the wall now, if you like.

Or mayhap out of the window. In that case all I can say is watch out for pigeons.

"So," Fudge says "You intend to take on Dawlish, Shacklebolt, Popyngcart, Dolores and myself single-handedly?"

Yes Fudge he will. It's not hard, especially with you involved.

I brace myself for a wham. Just before the inevitable though, Albus gives me a shadow of a wink.

And then I drop. Due to not inconsiderable experience in acrobatics, I fall without pain. But I was expecting this, and the others were not. They are out cold, a state I find Umbridge much more pleasing in. I scramble up; Minerva, Marietta and Harry already up. Harry looks almost surprised to see conscious. Albus must leave now, or he'll be in s*** for this. Albus instructs us as to what to do next, and then I am returned to the cold floor.

I lie in a state of feigned isolation, until I can sense stirrings around me, at which I blink my eyes open, gingerly raise myself as though wary, and look around. Fudge is back, and on full throttle too.

"Where is he?" He screams. I guess that this must be my cue to look bewildered and dazed. I give an innocent look around the room as though to say "Anyone see where he went?"

Perhaps words would be better.

"What in Merlin's name-"

Kingsley looks quickly at me and I give him a knowing glance. He catches on and I return to sheepish stupidity. I almost want to laugh when Dawlish hurries for the stairs. Honestly. Maybe I should have just clocked him one when he was out cold. Never mind.


	13. Battle for the Mysteries

_17__th__ May_

I have been betrayed. They knew I would be trouble, so I was sidelined. Cast aside. I was informed that my presence at the Auror Office was not required, so Joanie and I were given paid leave. We were not allowed to object. I kept my three most trusted spies: Jaina, Alysha and Branwell to inform me of any unexpected event that I had been selected to be kept from. But they have failed me.

Now I see why I was shunted aside. They planned to arrest Hagrid in the dead of night, and then attacked Minerva without provocation. And they pushed me out of the way, so that I would not interfere.

_25__th__ May_

I have come to the end of this book now; but my story is not yet over. The play continues long after the curtain has closed. I leave this diary near a year older, but am I wiser? I am not sure. Perhaps I am not a wise person, but at least I can now be happy with whom I am, and I would not be anyone else for the world. I remain cordially hated by the Ministry; but mayhap that will always be so. Maybe they just don't like people like me, if there is something I do or the way that I am. Governments and I- we are not match made in heaven.

There is no room for a heart in a heartless job, so I must lock my heart away for better times. Possibly I keep my heart here, in your hands. Can I let my heart rule my head? Both seem to be full of bitterness. Injustice could be defeated quicker through calculated planning and dogged determination- in my case, a hint of ruthlessness. An impulse of the heart and no resolution from the head isn't going to get me far. I could succeed, in my own pathetic way, backstage, quietly and with dignity.

If there is dignity in murder.

There is nothing for me now, with this diary, than to await the drying of the ink, close the book and tie it with a length of green ribbed ribbon- a lighter shade to the evergreen velvet of the notebook. Lock away my diary, lock away my heart. And then I take my leave of it, my head stuffed with memories and my heart filled with hope.

END OF VOLUME I

**Marion's War Diaries**

**Volume II**

_8__th__ June 1996_

Fudge invited me to his office today. I knew it could be for no positive purpose; in fact it was his chance to gloat.

"Ah, Marion," he said, shutting the door behind me with a flick of his wand. "What do you think of my new desk?"

I took a critical look at it, at the shape and size as well as the nature of the colour and polish.

"I think it is awful. It was purchased in exceedingly bad taste; in fact it looks like a halibut balanced on two cocktail sticks."

Judging by Fudge's face, I may have stepped too far.

_17__th__ June 1996_

It is a dreary time tonight. Tonks brings me a cup of blackcurrant tea. I have to smile when I taste the tang. She's laced it with Firewhisky, of which I have found myself becoming more and more fond. Despite the tedium that is associated with this bunker of a kitchen, my toes tap out a jazzy rhythm. My indignation at Minerva's sufferings was eased by Joanie taking me to a Jazz Night at Tetreton Town Hall. The fascinating _tap tap_ sounds are calming, and it's nice to do some exercise that's not chasing or fleeing.

Sirius is upstairs tending to an injury of Buckbeak's though how he got it I cannot fathom.

So it's only me left in the kitchen.

I start- I can hear a noise upstairs, a wailing scream like a warning. Leaving my tea on the radiator, I hurry on up to discover the source of the caterwauling. I feel very suspicious as my shoes slide on the stairs, dust clouds puffing out of unbeaten carpets. The Grim vanishing, flashes before my eyes. Out of the corner of the vision, Kreacher looks very pleased to see me out of the kitchen.

The moment I reach the top of the house, all seeming well- as humdrum as usual. A sinking feeling enters my stomach. The fine hair at the back of my neck prickles and I shudder. I've the answer all this time: the scream is not real; it's the warning siren sounding in my head. Something's wrong, and it's not a premonition of the future but a fear of the present.

Head spinning, I hurtle down the stairs, clutching the banisters until my hands throb. The circular staircase twists and turns and I am giddy, sick with fear. My mouth is dry and my head is spinning. Can't breathe, can't speak: can only run. I need to get to the kitchen- now!

Slipping drunkenly on the flagstones, I stagger for balance and my teacup smashes.

I find only Kreacher, laughing his head off and rocking with the mirth. This is eerie, just me and Kreacher laughing like there's no tomorrow. Maybe there isn't.

I grip my chair for support. Do I need to be afraid?

"What's so funny Kreacher?" I cannot hide the cynicism.

He wipes his eyes. "O the world, Miss Mad, Kreacher laughs at the world."

OK. I'm not leaving the kitchen now. I sit rigidly and watch him until the stare blurs my sight. I grip my fingers, cling onto the table.

One minute I'm waiting. And then, a message from Severus turns sour.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Harry thinks Voldemort has Sirius at the Department of Mysteries."

"Impossible. Sirius is upstairs looking after Buckbeak: I saw him, a few hours since. "

"How long?"

"Two hours, at most."

"Have you heard him? DO YOU KNOW THAT HE'S IN THE HOUSE?"

"Hard not to, he's been swearing at the injury fit to bust."

The message vanishes. Now I know what I must to do, because everything in me tells that Harry is in danger.

"Remus! Tonks! Mad Eye! Kingsley! Sirius, get your lazy a** down here now!"

That should do it.

Remus looks at my face and I know what he's thinking. Harry might just have landed himself in serious trouble. But Mad Eye is the first to ask me why.

"Severus sent a message. Harry thinks Sirius is in danger, he thinks Voldemort's holding him in the Department of Mysteries, at the Ministry itself."

We sit and await further instruction, but the later it becomes, the more I feel uneasy. Another message from Severus arrives, this time for all of us.

"Harry must still believe that Black is in danger. Call to alarm. Send a task force to the Ministry immediately. Black must stay behind and report to Dumbledore."

"Well I'm not going to," says Sirius. "Kreacher can do that. I need to make sure Harry's safe."

None of us thought to question this.

What if I should die tonight? Who would be the unlucky s*** to tell Joan? I would not envy them.

And Sirius? The Seeing? Maybe he should not have come after all.

We reach the spinning hall with the doors.

"Which one, Marion?" shouts Mad Eye over the roar of the revolving room. "Which door? Find them!"

Focus. I let the Sight drift me, direct me- and then point slowly at the two doors straight in front of me. I could almost feel what was going on in there.

We hurry into the chamber the moment the curses have destroyed the remainder of the doors. Awake and alert once more.

Harry's looking pretty desperate and Neville- _my _Neville has clearly taken quite a battering from Lestrange. With a flash of white light that seems to come from within; I force her to drop him.

I look around the room. I have played this game before, and the losers- four dead Death Eaters are not for nothing. My hands are as red as any. Dark magic leaves traces; and everyone must sacrifice something if they are to walk away alive. Childhood, innocence, freedom maybe even family.

I charge down the steps until we duel face to face. He deals with me as one would an annoying fly- thrash wildly and hope to squish it.

The arrogant Death Eater's head deflates quite rapidly and I move on to another dueller. But before I have stepped two paces; a spell shatters the wall behind me and I am covered in rubble. A growing warmness on my head tells me that my head is bleeding. I rapidly begin to feel dizzy and I know it's a head injury and not the Firewhisky.

Macnair, the dreaded Macnair is in the corner, unconscious and bleeding. Easy target; for anyone. But as I raise my wand, something feels wrong. My eyes fuzz out of focus; instead of one Macnair's there's three and they are so vivid I can barely tell the true from the false. I know I shouldn't, that the risk is too great, but the brutality wins over the subconscious and instinctively I raise my wand and say the words that haunt my dreams and waking moments.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

The moment I say the spell, I know I've done the wrong thing. My curse is cast too high, the angle's all wrong, and instead it whistles away and towards-

Sirius.

My heart deadens and almost stops. If this another vision, confirming my vision and folly, Sirius will die and I will be personally responsible, nor will I even dare claim innocence.

But it misses him, by a slither, and collides with the wall behind. Mayhap after all; my prophecy was wrong, or my Sight has failed me. Sirius could still yet live.

And for the first time since I was safe, I let myself have a little smile. My head throbbing, my hair askew, my face dusty from the spell craters. But I'm still alive, still smiling.

But it could not last.

There is a scream, muffled as Tonks falls; crashing helplessly down the stone seats. That has to hurt. Ouchies.

I race down to her, leaping aside from more spells to protect myself. I check her pulse, her breathing. Her eyes are open and unblinking, but she's alive. The Death Eaters will not have time to kill her; and Bellatrix may believe she already has. Tonks, as she is, is safe for the moment.

Back in the fray, Sirius takes on Bellatrix's duel. An emptiness fills me (an odd thought, I confess) and I can hear only silence, see only them. While chaos reigns around me, ducking down and firing spells at every Death Eater I see, though my head plays havoc with my aim.

And then, I feel a magnetism. Something is pulling me- not a physical force of any spell, but it's a strong instinct, a feeling. Despite the despair around me something is pulling me around, turning me towards a sense of the light. Something's leading me, guiding me up the stone steps-; something's coming, along the corridor. Any minute and it will be before me.

A spell whistling past me knows me and winds me with the force of its flight, ending with a crash by my elbow. I am flat on the rostra, the seats digging into my front. I look for something to grab onto and find only an ankle, closely connected to a foot.

An _ankle? That's _what I was brought all the way here for? Really? Some bony old ankle?

But I look up. It's Dumbledore.

That's better.

At once I feel quite myself again, as I always do. Albus is here.

"Your help, my little friend," he says and as he does he brushes his wand over my head, and the pain goes.

My joy is singing inside me, but frantically trying to drown out the cacophony, underlying like a banshee in the marshes. And the warning sirens howl once more.

He holds out his hand, and lifts me up, up onto my feet.

"Lead the way," he says and I want for no further instruction. I head on down the stairs; and I ready my knives. Albus overpowers them easily. His spill misses one; so I race after them and we duel.

Opponent, you have three chances. Three attempts to kill me and you have lost my patience.

One. The curse was too far to the right.

Two. Too far to the left, I easily dodge it.

Three. That one was close, but I saw it coming, and I bring out a stone tile from the steps to take the hit.

And now it's my turn, and I wish to high heaven that I wasn't sworn on assassination. I'm as trapped as he is. If I leave the Ministry or refuse to kill my prey; I will face execution myself. In fact, Umbridge will probably want the honour of doing it herself.

I duck his fourth curse and throw my knife into that part of the knee at the side that is the gap of the two bones. He cries in pain and I strike with my own curse.

Another death, another scream. Just another job.

And it's not over yet.

Sirius and Bellatrix are still duelling and the wailing siren screams louder and louder. I feel giddy again, and it's not my head. It's my Sight. The prophecy is fulfilling itself.

_Seven cruel blows_

Tonks, unconscious. Moody, vulnerable and eyeless. Ron, giggly and stupefied. Hermione, Luna, Ginny, all attacked. Kingsley, in pain. (My injury doesn't count, it's healed over now.)

_Nine mocking crows_

The arrogant and vicious Death Eaters, omens of death.

_One prophecy to tell the past_

Row 97, the prophecy regarding Harry Potter.

_One veil to take the last._

_One veil to take the last._

_One veil to take the last._

"Come on, you can do better than that!"

The blue flames that light this Department sputter and flicker.

And now he's gone. Sirius is dead, taken by the veil. I wasn't wrong after all. The Sight has never failed me, and I don't think it ever will.

I'll never have that vision again, because it has been fulfilled. Sirius is dead.

It doesn't feel real. But it's true; and if Sirius- the most alive person that I have ever known- is gone, what will befall those left behind? Who knows who will be next?

I shake myself, as if that will help. There's still a battle to fight; the gauntlet is still down. Kingsley has run forward to continue Bellatrix's dance of death; her new amusement. Killing is torture for me. It's fun for her. I don't stop to watch.

The bolts that Dumbledore conjured have taken down the remaining Death Eaters and taken all but to- Bellatrix and a man.

I leave her to Dumbledore and chase after the man. He sees the knife in my hand, the look in my eye.

He runs for the dais and I instinctively hurl my knife at him. Hearing the whistle of its flight, he drops to the ground. My knife thuds by his shoulder, catching his robes and pinning him down. It doesn't kill him. It was never meant to.

His face darkens like a thunderclap as he realises he has been played for a fool, scared into entrapment.

Now Bellatrix alone remains. She deflects a spell from Dumbledore, and I throw another knife. She screams as she dodges it, the blade slicing a huge chunk of her hair off, missing her and crunching into the wall.

Dumbledore races after her, Harry as well and he calls over his shoulder. My final order. Exhausted and resigned, I set off to find the others. I wrap up Hermione, Luna and Ginny. Madam Pomfrey will know what to do.

Ron's giggling still.

"Hey M-M-Marion," he says. "We saw- we saw."

"Not interested in whatever amusing planet puns you've come up with Ron." I snap. I'm fed up now; I was always an intemperate one.

He wheezes, and I know that there is one more thing I can do for now.

"I'm sorry Ron, but it's for the best. Stupefy!"


	14. FRom Behind the Veil

Later

I couldn't remember so much what happened after that. I slipped on the floor after Stunning Ron in my hurry to return to the others. I can definitely remember seeing Dumbledore and Voldemort at each other's throats. And though both of them could kill me in less than a minute; I sometimes almost wish I could stand beside Dumbledore, fight with him like any other member of the Order.

And Fudge does not realise the truth until it stands before him head-on. Only then can he truly see.

"He's back."

Minister of the Obvious, Cornelius Fudge. The cover's blown, the story's out. No more a "phoney war". The Second Wizarding War has begun.

I did not arrive at Hogwarts until several hours later. I groggily entered Dumbledore's study only to see Harry in a fit of grief, with Albus as calm as ever; several smashed instruments on the floor. Those little silver instruments that calmed me in my childish rages, gave me sighs of contentment in my troubled youth, fragmented on the floor, my innocence and my childhood along with them.

I do not cry. I sidestep the wreckage and sit on my old stool near the Sorting Hat. I tuck my knees into my chest and hug them, holding myself together. Maybe, if I squat like this, on a precarious old stool, I can mend and Sirius will come back.

But no amount of wishing could ever bring back the dead. No matter how many charms I instill, how many runes I cast, fortunes I tell, warnings I heed, all is for nought in the end. The Sight is a foreshadowing, oft of death and once it is done it is done and I cannot change anything, however much I wish I could.

Harry hears me sniff, and whirls around to stare at me.

"You!" He cries accusingly. "You knew! All along you knew! Why didn't you stop this happening? Why couldn't you stop this happening?"

More blood on my hands.

"I-I tried Harry," I choke out. "I tried to warn him, but-"

"But you didn't try hard enough!"

"I know." I stood back and let the deaths pass me by. Bode, Sirius- even Kreacher's betrayal, I just let it happen. I did not hold up my hand to stop these plotting men. And let Harry be the one thing standing in their way.

Were there ever a case of survivor's guilt, I do most heartily confess to be deserving of it.

"_This pain is part of being human... the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength."_

So after all that I've done, all the people I have killed, hearts that I have broken (through death only), families torn through bereavement because of me- after all that, and I'm still human? I think back to that Celtic evening, when the unicorn came to me and ate from my hand. How could you be so pure as to capture a unicorn, and yet be stained with so much blood? It beggars belief. Do grief and guilt recompense someone? Can taking life ever be forgiven?

My grief turns to anger.

Why was I so foolish? Why did I not press Sirius' case? I knew he should get out more often. Why did I not voice my own thoughts? We were to treat him so badly, Molly scolding him in his own house, even! Why is it that everything seems so clear in hindsight?

It has been a hard lesson, and I hope to be the wiser for it.

We were wrong to mistreat Kreacher too. I was wrong. He and I are similar than we thought.

And he is still there. After Harry left, Albus summoned me to him.

"There is a reason that Rowle was not there tonight,"

"Yes," I said. "The only one of the ten escapees not present."

"Voldemort is trying to tell you something."

"Why? I am powerless in the face of Lord Voldemort's magic, and I cannot kill my own father. My only hope to bring around their downfall is through Harry- and your orders."

That is nothing but the truth. It was luck that kept me alive tonight. Had my father been there, I would be doomed. I've survived so far, but we shall meet again.

"Indeed. But why would Voldemort deliberately not allow your father to be there tonight?"

"Because he knew that I would be there."

"And that is the most frightening of all. You must be the invisible face of this war, Marion. You are not the Chosen One- you are the Chooser. Ironically, despite your beliefs you might make a Slytherin as yet."

Without a word I turned and went for the door.

"I am not yet finished."

He opened a drawer, and retrieved a small box with a letter addressed for me.

"Despite your failure last night to recognise your own fear, you have proven to be useful to me, Marion. You have spied for us, guarded the prophecy for us, gained allies for us, killed for us and fought for us. You have captured a Death Eater and killed a second. You have made progress, my dear and for a girl who is now-" he paused to make a calculation "-twelve, you have done very well; and Sirius has something for you."

"But he is dead!"

"Sadly, yes. But the dead can speak to us in ways we cannot imagine. And after all, those that love us never truly leave us."

He hands it to me and inside the bluish sateen lies a necklace, and slowly I lift it out to the light.

It is of old seed pearls strung on a length of gold wire. An ornate pendant, a bronzish key covered with intricately worked flowers and vines, hung across the middle. Along the width of the key hang seven iridescent red glass beads, that glimmer mysteriously. I do not know their provenance, but they must be the jewels of a medieval queen, or a warlock's favourite apprentice girl. What my mother would have given to own such a piece! I place it reverently, almost feeling inadequate to touch it, and pick up the letter.

"Marion.

Thank you for your help, and your warning- but my life is my own, and you know that as well as anybody. That aside, enjoy your inheritance from me; and live your life always to the full, and not just for my sake. You deserve as much a life as anyone.

As you know, my brother Regulus was in the Death Eaters. And, after a while, he got cold feet. You were lucky, but not everyone is. Death Eater or die. And once you are a Death Eater that's it. You don't argue, you don't disobey. If Voldemort told your father to kill you then he will stop at nothing. But I think you'll be fine, you stay one step ahead of the game. I could tell you to behave yourself and keep out of trouble but we both know that that would be a big lie.

Always watch, Marion, for people who may be tempted to join the life of the Death Eater because very few deserve Azkaban and nobody deserves Voldemort. Harry has everything now, the house and Kreacher. Please watch out for the kids who may think it's cool, or believe that that's what they want. Please do what you can to stop them, because you know the ending before it's begun. Death, one way or another.

This necklace belonged to Regulus' girlfriend, after he died my mother took back the necklace and promptly sent the girl away. The old hag would turn in her grave to think that I have given it to you!

Anyway, this comes with a riddle, which I think you'll find interesting:

_If one did happen to possess_

_Finery beyond a golden dress_

_Yea, a greater treasure_

_More precious than value_

_And higher than measure_

_Would you even now_

_In twilit days_

_With aged brow_

_Your treasures keep_

_In secrecies vile_

_While millions weep_

_There are two people it is said_

_One is quick and one is dead_

_Why in one your tears could pour_

_When more is safety and safety is more?_

"Any idea what it is?"

"Haven't the foggiest, but it certainly giving the impression that there's safety in numbers. Whatever it is, it's important and I think that the necklace is a clue as well. Whatever the treasures are, there are seven. " I hold up the necklace. "So each bead must be one of the seven. And they are all in hiding" I point to the pendant. "Somewhere under lock and key."

At home

I get home to shrieking that feels almost as though the battle at the ministry is still going on around me.

"Where HAVE you been? I've been worried sick!" I wish I had had time to explain to Joanie where I was before I left. My eyes slide past her irate face to the clock on the wall. Five hours. That is how late I am.

I look back at Joanie; and it makes it worse. I've truly been awful to her today. She tries so hard to keep me safe, and I do stupid reckless things like that completely against the grain she has worked so hard to sow for me. I forget, sometimes, that I'm not the only one who has been hurt by the Ministry. I'm not the only one forced to kill people, suffered and punished. Joanie's gone through as much as I have, and more maturely. Would it have been that hard to send a Patronus? That was selfish of me.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it.

"Go to bed."

"Don't leave me! Not to my ghosts!"

She shrugs, and that night I sleep in the trestle bed by hers, and not for the last time I think of Sirius, and the mysteries, and I what I might have to do to survive.


	15. In Faith We Mistrust

_18__th__ June_

"Nice hat." I say.

"My wife bought it for me," Fudge says, twisting his lime bowler around and around in his fingers.

Madam Puddifoot's isn't as garish as it is on Valentine's Day, when breathing the very air brings on memories of Umbridge-itis, but there's still just that bit too much pink. Still, I didn't choose to come here. Fudge sent me an owl yesterday asking to meet him, and regardless of being an ex-Minister (who have a reputation of never getting on with their gloating successors) he still retains some vestige of influence.

He sits opposite me and finally puts down his hat. He reaches for a tea cup and begins to stir it, forgetting completely that he has neglected to pour any tea in.

"You've won, then."

"What?"

"You've won. Dumbledore was right. You were right. You-Know-Who returned, Sirius Black was innocent, and I have been made to look an idiot in front of the Ministry."

I feel a bit sorry for him, and woefully try to cheer him up.

"Well- well, you always looked like an idiot," I admit "so- maybe nobody's actually noticed?"

There is an awkward pause.

"I just made it worse didn't I?"

"Yes."

Oops.

"It's not just me!" I explode. "You have never known the amount of damage you have caused!"

Fudge's eyes pop.

"D-damage?"

I almost want to cry out with frustration; but now is not the time. I'm here to tell him what he needs to know, years too late. Only now, when he has lost power, can he be told what he needs to hear, and not what he wants to hear as far as I'm concerned.

"2,500. The number of Child Aurors who died during Vodemort's reign of terror. One in five. The number of those under the age of 17 in full time employment. 32%- the percentage of those children that can read and write. 46%; the percentage of those in child employment who live to see their 21st birthday. 39%; the percentage that live to be 30. 5%; the percentage who of child workers who live long enough to contemplate retirement.

This is the life you have condemned me to."

At each statistic, Fudge gets increasingly more shaken.

"But- Dolores assured me-"

"Oh, you mean Umbridge? Interesting. I sent those statistics to her over 12 months ago. Care to hear the response?"

"No! I beg you."

I unfold the letter and begin to read exercepts with bitter relish.

_"If I want statistics, I will ask for them from my own office. Your opinion is immaterial to me; if I want an opinion I will ask someone educated, unbiased, who can speak "proper." The system in place is vital to avoid contamination in our workplace from half-breeds, werewolves and other clearly unsuitable candidates. This is the price we pay for your freedom, Miss Popyngcart. This is the sacrifice the ministry undertakes on your behalf. You should at least try to act with good grace. I cannot stand ungratefulness and your disloyalty to your employers disgusts me. This is what must be done for the Greater Good. PS. What Cornelius doesn't know what hurt him. Breathe a word about this and you and your family will never work again under any circumstances."_

"Funny woman, the one you call _your friend_."

But suddenly, vengeance is not mine. Bullying Fudge will get me nowhere. There's nothing we can do now. I don't want to hurt Fudge any more. He's lost enough already.

Fudge didn't create this mess. Umbridge did. And it's now her I want to hurt. I don't want to get angry with wet little Fudge any more. I want to punish Umbridge for what she's done.

I take a deep breath, and try to make amends.

"But, we are both against Voldemort so it seems we must be on the same side now. Albus wants me to let bygones be bygones and deal with more serious matters than you and your _stupid _government. Forgive me, Fudge for my anger and my cruelty to you today, please. I will forgive you, if you like, and let us talk no more of it."

And that is that. I stand, leaving all untouched (at Puddifoot's they don't charge you if you don't order anything) and go home undismissed.

_19__th__ June_

I never believed today would ever happen.

As with many bad things, it all started with Umbridge. The new Minister, Scrimgeour (my old protector and the only person in the Auror Office apart from Joan who actually cares if I live or die) has the gullibility to keep her on, so it seems we all must deal with the _bufo _(that's Latin for toad).

She came swanning into the office on her fat little legs and all heads turned, along with a few stomachs. All was silent, partly because she had the most hideous pink mohair coat on (does she want to look like a used lint roller?) and because in her stubby hands she held- a document. And documents in the Office mean trouble, and change and strife.

She gave a little _hem hem. _I should have known even then.

"There is to be an additional compulsory clause to the contracts of the following Aurors regarding guardianship of Hogwarts Castle: Miss Tonks and the Misses Popyngcart-"

"Mrs Stanley and Miss Popyngcart, _thank you very much!_"

"-will be the ones required to sign the additional clause. Miss Tonks, the minister wishes to see you first. You may go up now."

The sight of her lonely figure approaching Umbridge made me straighten my arm and raise my hand.

"What is this clause?"

Umbridge smiled sadistically, her face broadening with glee.

"A personal one."

I worried for Tonks throughout all of the morning. She didn't return for hours; and in our profession that is never a good thing. Had she been called up only to be faced with a firing squad?

But she returned; and I came near to wish her to have seen a firing squad instead. This was not Tonks who returned, but a shaken caricature, death pale and faded hair, now brown and lifeless. I prayed for deliverance for what I was called next to face.

"What was it?"

She shook her head. "I cannot speak of it. It would be to live it again; spare me that at least."

I should have known the moment Scrimgeour led me down to the Department of Mysteries. I should have known by the cold of the air.

But it was not until the sight of Jaina, Alysha and Branwell that I realised what was going on.

Jaina, Alysha and Branwell- in chains.

Well, not exactly chains. They were under a full Body Bind Curse, inches from that veil. The only thing keeping them alive were three golden hoops (at the neck, waist and ankles) linked with a scaffold that held them upright.

In the corner a death rattle shakes me to my bones, were I skeleton already. Scrimgeour waves his wand at the corner and a damask cloth tumbles from a silver cage from which rattles: the snatching, rasping cries of the Dementors encaged there.

"Now" says Scrimgeour quietly, and as patient as a tutor with a child. As Dumbledore to me.

"As you can see- you, the mistress of the power balance- the forces here are balanced. The cage holds them hold to their lives and souls. But of course, the equilibrium cannot last. There could never have been order if there had not been chaos. There is no good without evil. The scales must tip sometime. And now, as you have wished, you can choice which side to tip."

I turn to him sharply.

"I never asked for their deaths, nor ill-wished them!"

"Ah, but you have. In your own way, you have set the scene here today. For years you have persistently pestered me. "Get me freedom! Get me choice! Or get me power," your youth did cry.

And now, you have what you have wanted for. You have the chance to free yourself. Condemn them to suffering soulless and free yourself from the guilt of death. Or choose to end their lives and take the guilt all on yourself. You want choice: make it. Life or death. You want power: I do duly give the greatest power on earth; life and death. "

"it is too great a power for me to decide," I say meekly but I accept a polished wooden block that he hands to me, on which is set two buttons, one of gold and one of silver.

"The gold releases them, the silver the Dementors. One cage must be opened, and you will decide which one."

"I must certainly shall not!" I shout at him and throw the block down contemptuously. "I cannot do it."

"Fine," he says through gritted teeth and picks up the block. His thumb is poised over the silver button, and at last moment I can think of nothing but of it.

"No!" I scream and snatch it back. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting for the trap to spring.

"Your clock is ticking."

So it is. I am torn between the two choices, knowing that either way, something is sacrificed. I know which I would want, but I do not know if that makes my decision wise. I look at the grabbing hands of the Dementors, their foul mouths, their ragged gowns and the ironically named "Kiss." There is no love in such a gesture.

My fingers hover over both buttons. Then a voice goads me into a choice.

"You cannot make half a sacrifice."

My finger stabs at the golden button, and my futility even my finger fails me. I push and pummel it until my humiliation is worsened as Scrimgeour takes the wooden board and presses it firmly for me.

They do not make it easy. It is not quick. The joints of the hoops sigh and creak with the souls of those it has released. And slowly, the three of them fall back into the veil.

Tears stinging my eyes, I seal them shut. But another hand, a long one, closes itself around the chignon at the nape of my neck.

"Watch," he commands. "Or I bring more in."

I betray those who served me, lied for me, lived for me , died for me into purposeless death.

"They were _people_"

"They were pawns" he corrected me. "Pieces in our game. Some must be sacrificed, to gain victory."

"_How? _What did that achieve?"

"You are the daughter of a Death Eater, Marion Popyngcart. Names cannot change what has been done. I need to know that for whatever reason you have been offered- family sympathies, belief, blackmail, coercion- you will not defect. I need to be certain of your loyalties."

"Why should you?"

"You complain. You berate the Ministry, criticise it, and argue forcefully against its very principles."

"It is because of loyalty that I see its faults! I am trying to protect it from itself! Some loyalist I should be if I did not wish to improve it!"

"Little matter. I have defended you, Marion, from your follies and childish mistakes. Do not go against those who have power Marion, they will crush you. "

"You've just sent three innocent children to their deaths."

"_Work experience interns,_ Marion. "

"_Why? Why _this cruelty?"

"It is war. Simple as that."

"And what of truth? What of innocence and justice and everything you and I have stood for?"

"We shall have them. When we have won.

But that is not the reason you are. I wish- as a friend- to warn you. Any suspicion, any doubt of your loyalty, any hint, any sign of defection, and you will see those cages again. But next time, it will be your sister and her daughter encaged. And next time I will not be so giving. Next time only one of them can have the mercy of death."

He turned me round to face him.

"Will you stand for us, obey every instruction, reveal all traitors whomever they may be, shun all sin and sedition and stand firm against defection?"

"I shall. I swear to it."

I knew. I knew, even then, that these would be empty words.


	16. In Case of Emergencies, Cheat

_20th June_

The day grew hotter as it went on, and I found myself disposed to open a skylight in Albus' office that looked as if it would but lift me up into the heavens themselves. He was gone for the night, and had left me as custodian of the room, with Severus organising his potions in the dungeon in case of an emergency I was to notify him.

It was an evening of solitude, after arguing mercilessly with the Hat over the merits of Sorting I was left to my own devices. I cleaned, polished and did trial runs on all of the spindly silver instruments.

I worried for him, of course- one always does with those whom we love. I knew he had done far greater missions than those of tonight- and come back scot-free. But tonight- something nags at me; and I would be foolish to shut it out.

It comes before I can warrant it. With a gasp, I collapse and lights pop in front of my eyes, as I am faced with the greatest agony that I have ever known. I must admit, the Cruciatus Curse seems much less impressive when faced with this torment. If Bellatrix Lestrange felt this, she would know what pain is.

My hand. It is as if I can feel it dying, its strength leaving me. Any moment I would not be surprised to see it crumble into dust before my eyes, wither away. Upon sight, it looks fine. My pale, rough hands, thin and scabby and scarred. My bony fingers and brittle nails.

But inside, my nerves are on fire, tearing my flesh and boiling my blood. I cannot describe what is consuming it, devouring it, I do not know.

The relief when it subsides is so bittersweet I could cry, weep and hiccup at the same time. In fact I do. It is gone, but it will be back. But will it strike me? Release an evil wind and you cannot call it back. Like an arrow, a curse can overshoot its target and harm another.

"Marion."

The voice is like wind blowing a weak tornado of autumn leaves, and just as the leaves flutter and settle still, so can I hear the life ebbing away.

I roll over, and Dumbledore is there. Almost unconscious, white as his beard (and his beard is very white). He is shaking, and almost half of what he was.

"By Merlin, you're dying!"

"Nice to see you too Marion." He sighs. "Fetch Severus, will you?"

Severus- what? I'm confused. The river through which I see has been obscured by a fog that no light can penetrate. I can't think.

"NOW!"

The sharpness of the tone sends me scrambling and scuttling wand in hand. Only in hindsight do I recall- Albus had never shouted at me before. Not like that, anyway.

The next hour passes in a haze of confusion, for all of us.

_"If you had sent for me earlier, I might have been able to gain you more time!"_

Or more to the point, if Marion was not weak and stupid she would have fetched you sooner.

At this moment of my guardian's greatest danger, and I find I am rooted to the spot. I am useless, and it is left to Severus to simultaneously pour potion and try to control the curse which is damning Albus.

Albus. My guardian, my guide, my hope- dead within a year.

"I can't believe it," I whisper hoarsely.

"Well you're going to have too," Severus responds simply. "Fetch me more potion."

After a while, the subject of the conversation is driven closer to home.

"I mean, that he intends to have the poor Malfoy boy murder me."

My head stops nodding and lifts up sharply.

"Draco wouldn't dare."

"We shall see who won't dare. That is where you come in, my dear." Albus smiles wanly.

"What have I to do with Draco? I do not care for the boy at all."

"That is irrelevant. This is war. I ask you to put away your distaste for the Malfoy family and address him not through mortal means but as soul to soul, all prejudices and physical grievances aside. You may disagree passionately with his opinions, sneer at his sarcasm, despise his arrogance; but at the end of the day Marion he's a human being, like you and I. Do not let your grievances with him stop you answering his plea for help. We may annoy each other and nag each other but in times of danger, petty things are gone and we see the world as the world and a human as a human. Do not let your head block out your head."

"You have me_ help_ him?"

"I want Severus to dissuade Draco from his task; but if that fails I want you to take his place. For once your heritage will be of some use to me. Show him your scars and your sympathy."

"And if he will not listen to the warnings of both?"

"Assist him."

"And betray you?"

"Precisely. Severus _must_ be the one to kill me, Marion. You must make sure this happens. If you have to jump in front of his killing curse, you must make sure that Severus and Severus alone kills me. "

"Befriend him.. . And betray him? And I must tell nobody? Not even my sister?"

"No. "

"Has it ever crossed that vast mind that perhaps my hands are bound? My wings clipped, my course run? I cannot do it! Not such a risk!"

"For goodness' sake, stop telling me what you cannot do and start telling me what you can! There are millions of lives at risk! Do it for them and their Greater Good!"

I freeze as those hated words wash over me.

"You promised me you wouldn't say those two words."

"What is a promise, these days?" snaps Albus.

"So I'm another faceless casualty? Another voiceless statistic?"

He sighs, and grows older by each breath.

"I am in no mood to argue," he says finally and I know that means no arguing for me either. "You will defect, in secret, to Draco. Sabotage, lie and deceive as you always have. And I want no further complaints. Do this, or you will know my displeasure. Serve me, serve Draco and the Minister. But at the end of the day, you will serve yourself as you always have."


	17. Humbled

_Too stressed right now to put the date_

The sight of Joan galvanized me into action. The sight of Joan, my sister, spirit broken; tears pouring down and ugly bruise marks on her neck. All it took was a blunt warning and a brutal choice for me to crack. Joan required physical force to make her comply.

I didn't need to ask.

"I'll never see her again "

She shakes her head, as if that will clear the thoughts that will not go, the fears that linger even after danger has passed. "My child."

It's binding, this contract. It has set its snare and it will choke her. We are bound to the guardianship of the castle for life. Nothing short of death will free us. The castle was once our freedom, now it is our prison. We once looked on the grounds, hills and plains with joy in our solitude. Now they are taunts of what we can no longer have.

Some would think this paranoia, obsession- but who can tell what is what these days? This war has changed our minds of what is cruel and what is survival, what is beyond human capability. It is harder to draw the line between human and devil. What seemed to be jumping at shadows six months ago is now a very real fear. And how do you know that a shadow could not kill you?

I promised myself that I would never again beg at Scrimgeour's feet, never infringe upon his mercy or ask anything more of him that what I could afford- not in gold but in blood. But with Joanie's happiness has gone my pride. It is for her sake that I must once more be pushed down into submission, and push the limits with my employer.

It will tighten my shackles for sure, but it may release her of hers. I have to try, for Joanie. Scrimgeour's not fool enough to suspect me of disloyalty, we will know my intentions clear enough. This not self-interest, nor greed. It is desperation, and the knowledge that this could be my last chance to give my sister the life she deserves: a free life. She has the bravery and the beauteous spirit to come through this. I would not end her here on my account, and it is for that which I bear myself to Scrimgeour.

He is surrounded by advisors, Toad Umbridge among them. I am alone. He stands across the corridor in front of his office, me across the way. He is in his world, in his power and I am in mine, in my plight.

At my gaze he turns and says casually offhand, "Leave us." Umbridge waltzes off in her self-righteous fashion, the others with a little less arrogance. I am shunted with a brusque gesture into the office where I stand, he sits. Even then, I am little taller than him and anyway can tell that I am far from his equal.

"I believe I am too late for myself," I begin. "Six years too late. I beg you, spare my sister. I know that she has performed well, but must that count against her? Must she lose her youth, her peace and everything that makes her happy? Must she die in all but name?"

He stays quiet and pensive, despite the ill-hidden plea in my voice.

"Why are you here?" he says irritatedly. "Come on. You self-serving little snake, tell me. You have put yourself at great risk. Why are you here?"

I bite my lip stubbornly and look him straight in the eye, something I have steadfastly avoided doing.

"Because she's my sister. And her happiness is mine."

He sighs, tired of my melancholy yearnings, tired of the very sight of me.

"Go."

My feet are eager to obey, but my head is not.

"Not until I have your truth."

"No she shall not be excused. I cannot let one go on the pubescent broodings of another. Now get out before you are thrown."

I have no choice but to comply. I leave before a faceplant occurs. If you're a Child Auror it's illegal to draw your wand against the minister or his assistants, no exceptions. He can beat you, throw you, insult you and crush you, but draw a wand in response and you go to prison. You might even get a Kiss if they mistake you for someone else. There's nothing to stop a Dementor kissing you, they don't get punished. You learn this pretty quickly.

_24__th__ June 1996_

Due to my failure, this is the last time that Joanie will ever see Adelaide again, and me too. I regret it bitterly, for I shall miss all her growing up. A year is not enough, but for a mother like Joan I don't think her love would be content enough for anything short of a lifetime.

She is dear to me; and as much to Joan, who remembers Adela as a baby far better than I do.

She is quiet and solemn, with a thoughtful expression and when you talk to her she puzzles over her answer as if each word deserves attention. She does not smile or laugh often, but when she does it is as though the sun has come out. We did some drawing all together and as I emptied my tin of pencils she lined up neatly; by colour, shade and depth of colour whereas I would just leave them lying around across the floor, moving them only for space or to pick one up. She thought for a long while of what to do, before selecting a black and drawing a series of curving shapes. I almost laughed when I saw it, it looked just like she was creating her own alphabet.

I thought what to do, and brought down from Minty's bookcase a small dictionary of Ancient Runes and put it before her. She seemed unsurprised by it in its book-form, but having opened it she seemed fascinated. Not by the topic, for she is a long way off learning to read- but by the words, the letters, the _idea_ of language. She traced the long shapes with her finger for hours, almost mesmerized by them.

Naively, I thought she was oblivious to all that was going on, to the world at large, almost to Joanie's continuing sadness. But she's an astute child, and knows more than I thought. Of all the details she is ignorant, but she knows our emotions almost better than we ourselves.

I take my niece out into the garden, so much neater and tidier than our own overgrown one.

"Look Adelaide, look at these- these sunflowers. Don't they have such bright, happy faces?" I fight to keep my voice neutral as Joan tends the wisteria emotionlessly.

"Yes," the child says. "I would like some for me. Then when I am sad, they can make me happy." I marvel at this little girl, who can find joy in such small things.

"I would also give some to Mummy," she says. "For she is very sad. I think she wants to be somewhere else."

"Indeed, I think we all do. What a place the world would be if it were but a garden, with only the sunflowers and their nodding heads."

_2__nd__ July 1996_

The moment I hear of their enterprise, I race to help.

The premises that the twins have acquired is fantastic, even if it is only filled with hundreds of boxes that they want help stacking. True, my levitation is a bit wobbly but its worth it to see the future being unpacked, stacked and priced.

To be honest, Reader I am a little useless and just spent much of the time looking and touching.

"This is nice. Can I have it?"

"_Love _potion?" says Fred incredulously (George is upstairs cataloguing.) He goes down on one knee and clasps his hand on his heart melodramatically.

"Sorry love. My heart belongs to another."

"I know _that_. Never mind why I want it. I want it; and I want for no-one to find out about it. This purchase must not be on record."

He grins cheekily.

"For a price."

"Money?"

"No. Assurance."

I roll my eyes and bring out my deck of cards, ignoring the prickling at the back of my neck. I fan them out for him. And instruct him to "pick a card."

He taps one at the back of the pack. "What is this one?"

I turn it over so that only I can see it.

"The Two of Cups. A powerful bond. You and your brother will do very well out of your shop here. Expect prosperous times."

He beams. But something feels wrong; the card feels thick in my hand. Then I realise: there's another one, underneath, I move the other card and a leaden weight falls inside me.

For grinning up at me is a skeletal face with a scythe.

Death.

Battle. Loss. Torn in two.

Fred's frowning at me now. "Another card? I thought I only had to pick one."

"It's nothing," the lie comes as easily as if it had been put there. "Joanie just mixed up my playing cards with the Exploding Snap. It means nothing."

But I know, as I collect the potion and put away the cards, it means everything.

_16__th__ August_

I take as long as I can to pack, though none of us is eager to go. I shall have to leave my house, my beautiful sheltered house. Leave Kent completely for Scotland, hundreds of miles north. Leave the places and the people that I have known and loved only to be surrounded by enemies, ensnared by plots and constantly watchful, and watched. Harry may delight in returning to his beloved school but I take little comfort in it. He has his teachers and friends, a whole Ministry behind him. I have to live by my wits, be fearful of losing my head lest I never get it back.

I say goodbye to my river, my secret river and jasmine flowers, black irises and lavender. I'll miss every quirk and commodity about this place. The priest's hole, the double bookcase, the oubliette (where I keep slipping) the Welsh dresser, the love I've had here, where I'm myself, not an ally or enemy but truly myself, Marion Popyngcart.

What I could do if I could be myself, without intolerance or ridicule. I could be free.


	18. You've Been Played

_17__th__ August_

Molly invited me for dinner, and she asked so nicely I couldn't say no. Harry was there too, which was nice as the last time he saw me I was shell-shocked and covered in grime. Now I'm back to my scrawny self, like last time like every time.

All was going smoothly until Fleur Delacour came in, at which point we were all moths to her light. Whereas most were fluttering around her, I froze to the spot. And I know why. Though I can confidently hold my own against any other Order member, I feel inadequate around Fleur, principally as I cannot speak a word of her native language [French]. Not even "hello".

Hoping to find an amiable way of avoiding Fleur, I find a pouffe opposite the one person in the room not paying attention to Fleur- Remus.

"Hallo, Remus." I said merrily.

He did not turn his head to acknowledge me; he knew that I was not either of the two he yearned to see. I got a "hmm" in response, while he continued to stare into the fire like he wished he could make sense of it.

"Seriously, Remus. You look awful. If we all drank from the Fountain of Youth, you would be severely dehydrated. Here- a cake. I made it for you."

I gave it to him, and he regarded me with quizzical fashion.

"You are a strange being," he said at last. "One moment you insult me with cheerfully frank friendliness, the next you console me wholeheartedly with concern. How is anyone ever going to predict you?"

I changed the subject back to him again, as was intended.

"It has not been an easy summer for you. You have lost a friend-"I corrected myself. "_Two_ friends."

He gives a sigh.

"Both are gone from me. One separated by a veil, the other by Hadrian's Wall. Both gone forever. One is with James and Lily; the other will no doubt join them shortly and forget me in the meantime.

It was clear by his countenance that he did not wish to talk further and we both relapsed into silence, both in agony of fear for the ones we love.

_19__th__ August_

I was summoned to Albus's office for what looked like the first time in a long while; with Harry attending regular private lessons with him it was unlikely to be as confidential.

If Order Marion is a human; and Auror Marion is a shadow of one, then Seer Marion is something entirely not of this world. She is secretive; tempestuous and as changing as the flow of the rivers she looks to. Beautiful? No. Desirable? No. But she is a figure of Fate, and lo and behold heed you not her warnings.

Albus cut to the chase.

"I want to know if we will be successful. I want to know if I will die. You've always been good at predicting death, not I want it to our advantage for a change.

Silently I take my seat in the corner and begin to shuffle and reshuffle the cards, making a cross, circle, square, diamond, heart and slowly eliminating cards as I go, until only 10 cards remain: all choices boiled down I am left with the future.

I create a pyramid out of the ten: a layer of four, a layer of three, two and one: the final event.

Slowly, starting from the bottom I turn the cards over, one by one.

The Moon.

"Deception, doubt and mistrust. From these the seeds of disaster are sown."

The Fool.

"Someone has been led astray, to disastrous consequences."

The Devil.

"A night of evil, of straying down a dark path from which we cannot return."

The Magician

"Their victim- is you."

The Hanged Man

"All is balanced as indecision toys, but it cannot last. The killer has doubts; he does not know what to do."

The Wheel of Fortune

"Lucky is the side that Fortune favours."

Strength

"Another takes his place."

Judgement

"He is faced with a terrible choice, on sight but wisdom wins over cowardice."

The Tower.

"Atop the Lightening Struck Tower, there is..."

I turn over the final card.

"Death."

_31__st__ August_

We are stationed at Hogwarts without delay, and housed in an annexe, kept out of the way. We have limited hot water, so permitted but five minutes each at the basin every day, and one bath each per week. None of our rooms have windows so all is dark, stuffy and cramped.

We are designed duties with meticulous precision. I am required at scanning goods entering and leaving the castle and the closing of the gates every night. I am also stationed to patrol the seventh floor, convenient as it just so happens to be the floor on which the Room of Requirement is located.

_1__st__ September 1996_

It was a late night's work, stopping, searching waving around probity probes until arms ached and wrists cried uncle. My eyes got really dry and sore from the cold air and darkness, darkness everywhere. I had just finished scanning Draco Malfoy (is it just me or is that disdainful look ever-present?)

Tonks, her face white with anxiety dragged me by the shoulder until we could not be heard.

"Marion, I'm really scared I haven't seen Harry; and Ron and Hermione came through ages ago they don't know where he is either. The train leaves in less than five minutes and it is vital that Harry gets through. "She says furtively and so quickly I'm surprised her tongue hasn't dropped off.

"What do you need of me?"

"Diversion. I must not be seen, the consequences of desertion are as dire for you as I."

I observe the scene before me and I spot an opportunity, all thoughts of alliance going completely out of my head.

Draco is heaving his heavy trunk off the table and I reach for it just at the same time, as if I'm trying to help him with it. I lean on him as I do it, balancing my weight so that when he nudges me, irritated, I topple over and fall smack on the ground.

With a cry of frustration and prostrate on the floor I snatch the nearest probity probe and whack Draco on the knee with it.

And we're _off._ Wrestling, slapping, smacking, cursing, kicking, and rolling around on the floor. The idea of getting out wands and actually having a proper duel somehow doesn't enter our minds and we're perfectly happy just to roll around like pigs in swill and beat each other up.

And it just feels completely impersonal. Suddenly I don't want to hurt Draco, I just want to _hurt_. It's like we have this well of emotion, bubbling up with anger, frustration, impatience and grief and we're just letting it all out on each other because we both have it and we don't have anyone else to let it all out on.

The best diversions are those that are completely unexpected, out of the ordinary and I note with a thrill of unadulterated satisfaction, as Filch pulls me off of Draco, that Tonks is nowhere to be seen.

Having grabbed Draco and me by the scruffs of our necks, he shakes us hard until my head almost collides with Draco's ribcage.

"What are you playing at!" he bellows into our ears. Draco shrugs him off and steps away sulkily. He mouths something I can't tell, but I'm pretty sure it's "filthy Squib."

"You, young man" Filch shouts pointing a shaky finger at Draco. "Act your age. You should know better than to attack a member of staff. As for you, young lady" and he cuffs me round the ear.

"Young lady! Young lady!" Draco says mockingly. "Skeletal lizard, more like." I swear at him and Filch cuffs me again.

"Behave, you two," he says warningly, but with an odd air of cheerfulness. I guess it's been a while since he could manhandle students.

Just after the Sorting Harry sneaks in and Tonks is quietly triumphant. Draco looks angry at the sight of Potter, and as he catches my eye at the side of the Hall he realises the truth.

He realises he's been played. Though come to think of it, he must have known. Perhaps we both knew all along. Come to think of it, he never even hit me very hard.


	19. Memento Mori

_4__th__ September_

I need to begin straight away, it is vital that I reach Draco before he starts to plan. I need to inspire empathy for my position, sympathy for my needs and stay in his memory long enough about them both. Most of all I need to start reminding people that I'm not just a callous murderer, I'm also a person.

And that needs to start inside out. The first sight of any Child Worker is a shock to the strongest of systems. You see a killer in kid's clothing. Painted face, crumpled clothing, dirty or broken nails, poor teeth, bones you can see through the skin- and the smell. Hairspray, sweat, bubblegum, blood. Yes, it's an unglamorous profession until we're shown to the public.

So I spare him that at least. I paint my nails, dry shampoo my hair (a life-send when you only have one bath a week) and cover my hands in cream so that if I have to make an Unbreakable Vow with him I won't sandpaper his skin in the process.

I allow myself a matching scarf to wear over my dress of red velvet roses. A scarf is a luxury in my job. When someone's trying to kill you, they may not even pull out a wand. A scarf is the first thing they'll grab. May as well hang a noose around your neck.

Now all I have to do is find him. This shouldn't be too hard, as I have committed another sin. I sneaked into Harry's dormitory and stole his Marauder's Map. Only for five minutes, but enough time for me to copy an equivalent onto a silk handkerchief in my pocket, then I put it back. I'm not being especially original here; Muggle Resistance women put maps on the backs of headscarves during the Second Muggle World War. I'm just using an old standby.

He's hanging around with his friends, Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini among them. Why do teenagers cling to their friends like limpets? What if someone wants private conversation?

I find them by a staircase, jeering at passing students and laughing. I place myself behind a corner- out of sight and out of mind.

I peer around and see Draco Malfoy along with the rest of them, laughing and sneering like it's just any ordinary day. I wonder what's going on in that head of his. Is he frightened? Is he angry? Does he even know what he's doing?

Suddenly everything sticks in my throat. I can't think of anything to say, anything just sounds so awkward and uncomfortable. There's no precedent for this. How does one appeal to an enemy for help? This is useless.

I peer out from the corner and I almost want to laugh. The wheel of fortune turns around and around and the situation from not long ago is the same again. Just where it was me opposite Scrimgeour, not quite part of his world, with him surrounded by his friends, now it is where it is me opposite Draco and his friends, both worlds alien to me. I'm not a teenager enjoying school years; I'm not an adult either. I seem to float like a will o' the wisp, never really fitting in either.

I stay too long staring and the group catches sight of me. Pansy Parkinson gives a smirk and strides over, glad of a new toy to play with. I stand up straight and hold my head up, but it makes little difference as Pansy is still two heads taller. She leers down at me and I stand my ground.

"Morning scarecrow! _What _are you wearing?" She flicks her finger at my dress. I wrinkle my nose as I brush her off.

"Don't think any boy's ever going to look in the Mirror of Erised and see _you _there!" I'm almost touched that she takes the time to form an intelligent insult. I stay steely and cold and continue a hard stare; something my father was always very good at.

"That's not what I would look in the Mirror to see."

"What would you, then?" Draco interrupts, almost interested. I give him a smile as if to say "Figure that out for yourself."

He and I walk towards each other, bound by mutual curiosity as though we were about to dance. The silence is testing, and I decide to keep him on tenterhooks for no longer.

"Love or hate, kiss or kill, I'm here to make my mark on Wizarding Britain, forever. You can throw me down but you cannot crush me. And I will be free."

I can see his eyes widen, almost in fear, but he remains composed, locking away his emotions as he always does.

"Well you've certainly left your mark on me," he says huffily. "Got bruises the size of plums." I can remember him making such a fuss over Buckbeak hitting him. Still, nobody's given me grief for beating him up, and I haven't seen Scrimgeour for ages so I guess I owe him.

"Still alive, though," I say quietly. And I can see him mouth "Just."

I turn away from him, pull a face at Pansy and stride off with a smile on my face, knowing full well that all of them are watching me go.

_11__th__ September_

I hadn't meant to write.

Two hours ago, an attack was made on my life. I'm now sitting up in a bed in the hospital wing, with the mother of all bandages around my head. Around me are milling some of the Order: Minerva, Molly and Tonks.

"Look, it's just an accident," I say impatiently. "OK? I was just going too fast down the steps, tripped and that's that. Just me being stupid."

"I don't think so," says Tonks and Minerva nods her head in agreement.

"I know not everyone's going to be nice and get me with a Killing Curse, I didn't see anyone behind me so they could have been under a disillusionment charm, but it still makes no sense." I pull my cross face.

Sighing, they leave exasperatedly and I flop down on my pillows. I'm almost sociopathic when it comes to lying but it's harder when I'm so tired, and it has nothing to do with sleep. I've had nine hours uninterrupted sleep every night since I've come back to Hogwarts. Normally it does wonders for my health but I'm exhausted from my fall.

The memory is as painfully present as the wound throbbing in my head. I can remember every detail, every time I consciously close my eyes; it's all there, just like the nightmares that used to come, more regularly than food. I'm not yet thirteen and they want me dead.

And I always loved staircases. Circular ones that swept through a room, old stone ones that passed little diamond paned windows. It's cruel when the things you love are turned against you.

I was walking down from the seventh floor and I thought I could hear someone behind me though after I had fallen they had gone. I went faster down the stairs so that I could let them pass.

I never anticipated the push, the shove at my shoulder that sent me toppling head over heels down the flight of steep stone steps. I was surrounded by the pain as each stair dug in, moving and hurting. Each time I turned I saw the bottom step that stuck out like a lip. I knew that if my head hit that, as it seemed certain to do, then my skull would crack and my brains would spill out over the floor.

What a brutal way to die.

I had to hurt myself to save myself. I swerved my head and smacked it on the side of the staircase, the wall. It hurt like crazy, lights popped in front of my eyes and I sobbed with the hurt, the pain and confusion.

I managed to stagger down to the hospital wing before I collapsed.

I know it wasn't an accident. But I can't take justice. I'm going to let them get away with it; they'll have gone empty-handed anyway. No, they would want me to take action against them, get a court case and everything. But that would take too much time, and by then they would have another chance to have a crack at me and this time I don't think I would make it.

I will not have my moves dictated for me. I need to get Draco to realise the danger- that we're both in. I have to swallow my pride, and he has to accept my help.

And ironically, my father will help me in this. He taught me, somewhat unintentionally, the power of a psychological threat.

From the drawer under my hospital bed, I take out a length of black velvet mourning ribbon and I set off to the Slytherin dormitories. I figure out which is his bed, and around the nearest bedpost I tie the ribbon in a big bow, tweaking the ribbon so that the words embroidered on the side in silver are clear for all to see, glistening in the dark; memento mori.

_Memento mori_: remember you will die.


	20. Patchwork Girl

_13__th__ September_

Out of hospital; at last. It needs to be said that Madame Pomfrey was ecstatic to see me go. I irritate her in every possible way. I read for about three hours every night, which she doesn't mind, but I was reading hefty books. After my bedside table collapsed a total of eight times (five times in one day alone) from the weight I took to stacking them at the end of my bed. Trouble was, I would turn over in my sleep and unconsciously kick them off resulting in; "_crash! crash!crash!"_

So she suggested a way of passing time while my head healed over that was a little quieter. She almost cried when I told her I sew. Finally, Marion Popyngcart would be a _silent _invalid and cause _no _problems whatsoever. Not so. I must be the only person in the whole history of Hogwarts to have somehow succeeded in sewing their embroidery to their mattress. And then ruined her copy of the Daily Prophet when I spilled stuff all over it. Oh dear. I have to say, the headline "Daily Prophet; Death Eaters Rumoured to be in South of England" doesn't look any more cheerful covered in blood-replenishing potion. And then I was relighting the candles by hand and set my hair on fire.

And that's not all. Oh no. There was the overdose.

It wasn't that I didn't pay attention. But hey, most medicine I have taken in my life has been disgusting. Skele-Gro is the worst; but this one was very nice. Tasted of bananas. Trouble was, it made my stomach go all funny and I spent all that afternoon with a pipe down my throat pumping it out. Pleasant.

So no love lost. I don't know if it's just me, but most folks either seem to like me or can't stand me. I suppose I am rather horrible sometimes.

I was delighted to get back to our room which was much more personal than the hospital wing. Joan had made a headband for me with padding so that it wouldn't be tight around my sore spots, which are still haven't quite healed. I asked her why she had gone to so much effort for me.

"Anyone going into hospital with health like yours has a half chance of coming out. I didn't want to think about the other half chance." She has always been sincere, and I have never doubted her in anything and I felt almost guilty. But I'd far sooner admit to incompetence than the idea of being selected for assassaination.

We sat on our adjacent beds and chatted for hours and I realised just how much I'd missed her over my days in hospital. I made some adjustments to some of my poems and she helped me on my scrapbook. I even showed her some bits of my diary and we laughed about more carefree times.

"Haha, that Healer was great fun" she said as we opened it to her having Adelaide all that time ago. I flick back through the months: Christmas at Grimmauld Place, Harry's hearing, Arthur being attacked... it feels so long ago.

She leaned forward, her hair sliding slightly over my face. Her smile was like a candle slowly catching fire, as she whispered to me: "I've found someone, and I think they like me back."

"A new boyfriend? Tell!"

She laughs at my perennial nosiness. "His name is Adam; and he works in Hogsmeade. He always meets me after my shift and we talk together; he is the gentlest of souls. But- I don't know"

"What is it? He is most dreadfully boring?"

"No, it's not him. I still love Tom, that's all."

"Of course you do. We all do. But my dear sisters, how old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"And you have already been married, and widowed with a child just over a year old. You have fought and risked death; you have shadows hanging over your head. You know that Tom would be the first one to want you to be happy, even if it was with someone else. Of course you love him. But death isn't the end; for him or for you."

She looks at me seriously, and I know she has been considering a decision throughout this.

"What if there was a choice, a choice so important to a person that it consumed them so entirely, burning them up as it were, and they knew that their heart would break without a chance but they knew that they risk hurting something special to them?"

I thought that I saw a bluebird flutter in through the door behind her. I blinked once, and it was gone.

"Love is affectionate understanding; loved ones would not mind."

I can feel tears pricking my eyes sharply and I realise just how much I've needed my only remaining sister. If it wasn't for her, I'd still be back with my father uneducated- or dead. "You bring happiness, Joan wherever you go and that is the greatest compliment I could pay you. I feel so glad I might even sing."

"Oh please, don't. We all know what happens when you sing."  
"What's so bad?" I say huffily. "I was passable enough to bring forth mermaids."

"Yes, and we all know what Mermish sounds like above water." We snigger like old times and I tap her with mock irritation.

"How is it you put it, Marion?"

"When I sing; ecology is obliterated, Dementors commit suicide and Armageddon comes 15 minutes earlier."

_15__th__ September 1996_

And so I wait. Just around the corner from the Room of Requirement, I perch in a corner and draw out a large encyclopaedia on alchemy ( partly responsible for the table-collapsing incident in the hospital wing) and use it to hide my face, smoothing out my scarf to watch for anyone coming this way.

I must be sure to be on my best behaviour today. Once, Dumbledore had an emergency at Hogwarts- I forget what- and had to miss a History of Magic lesson with me. I had Professor Binns teaching me instead, which resulted in me passing out on the desk. When he asked what was wrong after the lesson I lost my temper and told him he was the most boring person I had ever met.

Yeah, he hasn't spoken to me since.

I see Draco on the Map before I hear him; and neither takes me by surprise. He's been showing up here an awful lot recently. I thought I might have a better chance of getting him alone here, and it seems I was right. It looks like this is the one place he won't be taking Pansy Parkinson.

I see him stop just around the corner, and I slowly shut the book and fold the scarf up into my sleeve. I walk until we are opposite; at either end of a hallway. No reinforcements, no horde of friends to back him up or hide who he really is. And from such a distance, we look the same height.

From such a distance, we look equal.

I am the first one to speak. "I can't go it alone."

He rolls his eyes at a display of weakness. "So you want someone to fight your battles for you?"

"I want someone to fight it with me, not for me."

"So you turn to me. The person you have shown nothing but open contempt for these past- what, six years? Seems that smug shine has gone, tarnished by bitterness. Your pride is humbled, so you'll even turn to what you hate to keep you from what you fear."

"As is sadly the case with many human beings; better the devil they know."

"Perhaps. But what interest could you possibly have in me?"

"I want Dumbledore dead" he gives almost a yelp of surprise that I should know his plans. "And you're going to help me get there."

"You... want Dumbledore dead? Funny that." His grey eyes, so similar to mine, narrow in suspicion. "I would have thought you the most devout priestess in the Potter cult."

"Indeed, my faith is waning. I'm as concerned about keeping you alive as I am about seeing the man dead."

"Why on earth would you want _me_ alive?"

"Maybe I'm trying to prevent an early and unnecessary death, I don't know" I snap. "I'll leave the guesswork to you."

He shrugs. I can see a mild sense of temptation growing, give it a bit longer and he'll probably agree.

"Well, of all the defections to Voldemort's side I could have expected, yours was the least likel-"

He doesn't quite finish the word "likely" as my hands throttling him temporarily cut off the airflow in his neck.

"I am _not _defecting to the Death Eaters! Never! _Never!_ I am on your side here, not Voldemort's, never Voldemort's! OK, I want him dead. Because I'm jealous, that he's clever and I'm not. Because he's lived 150 years in comfort and I've had to fight for every one of my 12. Because he has more power and influence –that he claims he doesn't expect or even _want_- than I will ever have a chance of getting."

"Oh yeah? Didn't you hero-worship him just the like the rest of this damn school? You were virtually bowing down before him when he took in for tutoring. Bet you thought of him as your _saviour_, didn't you?"

And then I'm not all there anymore, but back in Dumbledore's office, not a political orchestrator but a frightened little girl fleeing a murderous parent.

_"What is your name, little girl?"_

_"Marion Popyngcart, sir."_

_"I was told I was entrusted with the education of Marion Rowle."_

_"That girl is dead to me. I am Marion Popyngcart now that is the side of me that I want the world to see. The other side must only exist for me in my head."_

He looked at me with a sort of sad understanding. _"I know what you mean." He said. _

_"What is your aim, Marion? When you leave this school, what do you want to be?_

_"Not stupid, sir."_

He smiled at my enthusiasm but disapproved of my prejudice.

_"Here is a list of books, Marion. I want you to have read them by the end of the holidays..."_

_"I'm going to be out for the rest of the afternoon, Marion. Here is a 200-word length of code, crack the code, write up the alphabet and translate the passage by tomorrow. We can discuss the meaning tomorrow..."_

_"Not satisfactory, Marion... do it again... that's better. See? It's a much stronger spell now."_

_"Now let's discuss your approach to history, Marion. You can't look at the events with the mind of a 20__th__-century girl; you must think yourself into the shoes of someone with a completely background and outlook. It's a huge exercise in empathy..."_

I miss being in school.

"What he did for me was nothing more than the right thing to do. Giving me an education is my _right_, not a sign of favouritism. And just because he gives me something I'm _entitled _to, doesn't me I must be bonded to him for life. I constantly resent having done everything he tells me."

The lie stings my mouth so I'm forced to get rid of the vitriol as fast as possible. Maybe I am envious of Dumbledore, who isn't- but I chose to work with him. And only half of that choice was out of gratitude. The other half was the spotting of an opportunity- the opportunity to find a powerful ally who might just keep me alive.

"But what can you even do for me? How could I possibly need whatever talents you have?"

"I can throw a knife. On a good day I might even hit the target." He raises an eyebrow, no doubt thinking it false modesty.

"And more importantly, I know my poisons." He scoffs at this.

"I don't need help measuring out potions thanks."

"Don't be so cynical. I can do more damage in ten seconds using a bottle of chemicals the size of my thumb than you can with that stick of wand in a minute."

"Stick of wood?" He sounds offended, twirling the black hawthorn wand around in his fingers. "I'll have you know this is a fine wand."

"I'm sure it is. Give it a year and you'll lose to someone who I'm sure will put it to much better use."

I can sense I may be putting him off an alliance, and I am eager to team up as soon as possible. No more mistakes. No more mishaps holding me back. Progress must be made, and fast."

"Come _on_, Draco. It's not like your fighting off offers. Your father's in Azkaban. Safe, maybe but a fat lot of use he is to you there. Your mother's hands are tied. Crabbe and Goyle are the most foolish things on this planet; their decisions will only make things worse. And Pansy- well, maybe she's pretty, you obviously get on- but has she seen what's become of you? Has she even noticed that anything's wrong? Has she realised what is happening under her nose? No, she has not."

Still he pushes me away.

"It's too late. I can't go back-"

And then he pulls up his left sleeve and I recoil; with horror and disgust at the Mark on his arm.

"See? You call yourself tolerant and yet you flinch at the alien. I've seen the look on your face whenever somebody brings up the subject of Death Eaters. You've devoted everything to bringing the likes of me into Azkaban, why should I believe that you would ever join forces with a Death Eater?"

It is with a slow realisation that I understand why Dumbledore tasked me with this.

"Because you were almost me."

And then, as if in explanation, I pull up my left sleeve so that our two arms run parallel.

"It is the Rowle tradition, paramount to a way of life, that every child is called upon to serve the Dark Arts; whether under Grindelwald, Voldemort- any Dark Lord. That is the purpose of their living, and no other.

I knew that I would face a life of fighting, a life in the Dark. I was indoctrinated into the pureblood way of life, but it did not work for me. I just wasn't that kind of person; something told me- someone, that it would destroy me, and that for my own self-preservation I must not join my father's side.

I had worked out that all Death Eaters had a Mark branded onto the left arm, and I knew that all costs I must avoid that happening to me. But I did not see death as an honourable alternative. I knew that all I had to do to skirt the inner circle of Voldemort's followers and all Voldemort's inner circle had the Mark.

I had to incapacitate my left arm, but I could not bear the thought of losing it entirely. So I decided to damage the skin so badly that it would not be reparable without the help of St Mungo's. So I poured acid over it. It was agonising, but I truly believed I was saving myself- suffering pain so that I would never suffer it again.

My father was furious at this act of mutilation, of revolt- so he decided that my sister and I were more trouble than we were worth. So he killed our mother as punishment for letting me go so far, and turned on us. Joan took us out of that place, and here I am. That new skin you see on my arm covers old scars, and I am a patchwork girl, each time hiding my past with a new surface. That is the price you paid to get in; this is the price I paid to get out. That is why I will help you."

He had listened dispassionately to what I had to say, and clearly had thought that if I was prepared to mutilate myself to get my way, I was worth taking on.

"It certainly would be a comfort to have someone watching my back."

"Must I? I'd rather watch your front, it's much more handsome."

Like so many occasions, I only realised what I had said after I had said it. He turned back to me.

"I think I could work with you," he said amusedly.

"Don't flatter yourself," I replied grumpily. "That's the first and last compliment you're getting off me!"

"I don't doubt that it is,"

"There are conditions, you know. Firstly, I am not Pansy Parkinson, so don't treat me like her. We act and think as one unit from now on. Secondly, I am going to be the biggest demand on your time. If I say it's urgent, I mean it's urgent. If I say I need you now, I mean now. Not in five minutes, not in ten, not whenever you feel like it. Don't think there is any hour of the day in which I would not take the opportunity to call on you. Thirdly, no secrets from me. If I discover that you have hidden any important information from me, then the Nimbus 2001 gets it, along with enough Potions coursework to set you back three weeks. Accept these terms?"

He walked back to me, picked up my left hand and shook it.

"Accepted." He gave me a mock salute- and then left. Just like that. As if an Unbreakable Vow isn't even needed. As if a bond of trust is just the same as it's always been, and not so easily broken.

As if I am not really working for his enemy.

As if he had faith in me.


	21. The Opal Crisis

_"He must have used __**an accomplice**__ then" said Harry. "Crabbe or Goyle- or, come to think of it, another Death Eater, he'll have loads better cronies than Crabbe and Goyle now he's joined up-"..._

_"__**It wasn't a very slick attack**__, really, when you stop and think about it," said Ron... "__**The curse didn't even make it into the castle**__. Not what you'd call __**foolproof**__."_

_"You're right" said Hermione... "It wasn't very __**well-thought-out**__ at all."_

_"But since when has Malfoy been one of the world's greatest __**thinkers**__?" asked Harry._

_Neither Ron nor Hermione answered him._

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, page 241 Chapter 12 [Silver and Opals.]

_26__th__ September_

After dinner I slip upstairs to the Defence Against The Dark Arts classroom, now occupied by Snape.

It's considerably darker than the corridor outside, and whatever light there is shines on gory images of torture, despair and death.

"I love what you've done with the place."

"Thank you," Snape smirks. "It's not as if you could have done any better. Knowing you, you'd have painted the walls some ridiculous colour, have more bookshelves than the school library and enough candles around to burn down the school in one sitting."

I turn sternly.

"At least I know that poor lighting is not good for your students' eyesight. How on earth do you expect them to read when it's this dark? They'll have difficulty finding page 394, let alone turning to it."

He sits down at his desk with a sweep of black cloth.

"So do you have any purpose here other than as a pest?"

I shrug. "Just thought you might like some information."

"About what?"

"Oh, it's nothing."

"About what?"

"No, it's really not that important."

"Tell me."

"Well, you _might_ not need to know-"

"Marion Popyngcart, tell me NOW!"

I grin and slump into the chair opposite his desk. "Alright then. Seeing as you put it like that- I am allied with Draco."

"_Really?_" Snape sneers at me. "I take it then he is ignorant of your true nature? That he is unaware that you will dictate his every move, be jealous of his seeking help anywhere else and, should all go awry, abandon him without so much as a word in his defence (unless you still require his help) in favour of saving your own sallow skin by means of a predetermined escape plan?"

I gulp. My throat is dry. "It's not like that," I say hoarsely. "I want him alive. It's as much of a moral standpoint as a strategic one." I shift nervously in my seat, because that's eerily true. That's what the love potion hiding in my back cupboard is for. At a moment's notice all I have to do is leave it lying around uncorked or in food after I've eaten and nobody will be any the wiser. I'm a teenage girl, I'll admit Draco is handsome- nobody will suspect a thing. Much more of a convincing alibi than pretending to be under the Imperius Curse.

"_Of course it is_." Says Snape sarcastically. "In your eyes, morality and your plans are equable. You're almost as arrogant as Potter."

"What's he said now?"

Snape eyes flare.

"'No need to call me Sir, Professor.'"

I burst out into gales of laughter and Snape looks angrier at each snigger.

"It was not funny!"

I wipe my eyes. "I think, Severus, you will have to let him win that one."

He scowls at me. "I thought you had something important to tell me?"

"Yes. Draco has been frequenting the seventh floor and has spent hours there. Since he and I joined forces we have met several times, mainly in passing. He has clearly not forgotten our conspiracy. From what I hear of his teachers, his schoolwork has been neglected- although Slughorn did say he showed particular eagerness in a bid to win a bottle of Felix Felicis. He is yet to reveal his plans, though I am certain we will do so at some point. Has he told you anything?"

He shakes his head. "No. He blames me for his father's imprisonment."

"There's irony for you. I had far more involvement in Lucius Malfoy's incarceration than you ever could have. But he seems to have airbrushed that."

"Keep an eye on him. I may be his Head of House, but I can't observe him constantly. Make sure he doesn't do anything against Dumbledore without your involvement. Most of all, none of his plans must be allowed to succeed until Dumbledore wishes it- and I do."

I square up to him. "OK. I'll take that. But don't forget my orders come from three men only; Albus Dumbledore, Alastor Moody and Rufus Scrimgeour. No Malfoy is on that list, and don't forget that neither are you. "

He narrows his eyes. "Get out."

"Have a nice day." My attempts at pleasantries earn me a grunt in return.

_27__th__ September _

Neville and I- we don't speak to each other anymore. I passed Draco in the corridor, and I smiled at him and made a joke. Neville was there too, and I saw the look he gave me. He wasn't angry, just sad. I knew what he thought of me. The time when we were best friends, study partners, pen pals, is over. And I have to wonder how many more friends this alliance will cost me.

_19__th__ October_

At last, progress is made!

"We need a system to communicate in secret," he said to me, as I idly swatted at some queasy-looking Cornish pixies in the Room of Requirement. "There must be no more long breaks between meetings. I need to get to you quickly."

I pull out a fake Galleon and flick it to him. "Where d'you get this?" he asked me.

"I stole it off a girl called Marietta Edgecombe. She was in the DA, and they used these to communicate. If anybody turns out your pockets, all they'll see is that- given your massive wealth, nothing strange."

"Don't you think they'll suspect us of using their means of communication?"

"Why should they? After all- who could _possibly _have known that, and told you?"

"Good point." He pockets the coin.

"For what do you require my help?"

"I have a plan at last- to kill Dumbledore without actually having to watch."

"What, shut your eyes and hope not to miss?"

"No- I have a cursed necklace, and-"

"Draco, you imbecile!" I shriek. "OK, I'll admit Dumbledore's flamboyant, but he'll never wear a necklace!"

"He doesn't have to _wear_ it," Draco says exasperatedly. "He just has to touch it."

"Oh." Now I understand. "So you'll have it delivered up to the castle, he will touch it and boom."

"Boom."

There are so many flaws in that plan; I don't even want to start. And I won't. Because there's nothing I want more than to see this ill-fated plan be botched up right royally, as it deserves to be.

"And when will this necklace be delivered?" _Please don't let it be too soon_ was the only thing going through my head _give me time to think_

"I thought you might be able to come up with something."

"When are you completely busy with something you cannot want to do, or possibly avoid, which will absolutely keep you away from Hogsmeade?"

He pauses. "I have detention with Professor McGonagall next week. Catching up on missed work."

I am so overjoyed I have the sudden urge to grab him around the head and give him a kiss on each cheek. I don't of course. For once I show an ounce of self-restraint.

"Brilliant! I have never been so glad to see you failing school!" I manage instead. "Be there then."

The hour passes in his explaining further details of the plan, which seems less of a problem the more he talks.

"So, your plan is that you will give the necklace to Katie Bell, curse her, she will take the necklace to Dumbledore- in a nutshell?"

"That's right."

"First things first. You must not give the necklace to Katie: because if this all goes wrong she'll remember you being present when she was cursed. Also how are you supposed to give the necklace to Katie and then be at your detention on time? You won't. You mustn't be late, if anything you must be early.

Make sure McGonagall is with you the entire detention. If she looks as if she is about to leave, pretend to be confused by something and ask for help. Not odd behaviour- Transfiguration is a tricky subject. Also, under no circumstances look nervous, anxious, or in a state of anticipation. Just look bored. She will suspect nothing.

Meanwhile, I shall manage things myself. I can go places you can't-"

"Oh like where?" he says testily, his pride stinging.

"Women's bathrooms, idiot."

"oh right."

"Again, another way of distancing this from you. I will give Katie the necklace and her instructions. Voila. Any questions?"

"Yes" he says slowly, as if addressing someone of very slow wit. "How do you intend to smuggle the necklace to Katie in the first place?"

"I've been smuggling things since the age when you would be learning your ABCs. Took a lot of practice. Besides, my greed when it comes to jewellery is common knowledge. Nobody would look twice to see me with a necklace in my bag. But I have one more thing to ask of you-"

"Just one?"

"Give me the necklace the night before. For one thing, the less you handle the necklace the better in terms of covering this up. And for another, I can keep it much safer than you ever could. Where could you possibly keep it? In the room of requirement? You'd lose it. In your dormitory? Please, a house-elf would find it, and you can't tell them to leave your dormitory alone- Draco Malfoy turning down the opportunity for someone to clean up his room? Ridiculously suspicious. "

He continues to argue but I batter him down with experience, common sense and downright bullying. It takes me hours, but I'll take as long as I need to. He gives me full control of the errand, and promises to deliver the necklace the day before the necklace must be delivered.

_29__th__ October_

I never meet with Draco in the Room of Requirement, but as he's passing between lessons and I'm leaving one post to take up guard on another, we cross each other's paths on the covered bridge at the edge of the school. I catch his eye, and find that I know exactly what he's going to do next.

We both collide into each other and he gives a disdainful sigh, brushing me off. I scoff and turn away from him. "You're not the only one using this corridor, _Malfoy_!" I shout at him, and then continue on my way, an oblong package wrapped in brown paper bumping against my side, hidden in a pocket Undetectably Extended in my coat.

Who would have thought it- that this exchange has happened under everyone's noses- literally, for mere moments away Filch is searching people entering the castle. And I will pass through unblamed, for why on earth would Marion Popyngcart receive a cursed object in a public place, if at all? Doesn't make _any _sense.

And that is why I won't even be suspected.

Later

I have to act fast. Draco expects Katie to receive the necklace in ten hours, and it will take me at least six hours here, in an abandoned laboratory in Aberdeen.

I have decided that I am going to try to break the curse on this necklace. Not completely, obviously. That is far, far beyond my power as a witch. If I try I will undoubtedly fail and most likely kill myself in the process. I'm no Bill Weasley. I'm a curse maker not a curse breaker.

But I can blunt its strength as much as I can. This is my last resort, in case Katie is somehow able to deliver the necklace to Dumbledore. The curse will still be painful, still hazardous- but with any luck it won't be deadly.

It takes me hours and hours, and even by my standards it is dangerous work. The chemicals I use to try and crack the stones make me cough and splutter. At one point my mouth goes completely black from this stuff and I spend about half an hour frantically brushing my teeth at a sink in the corner. Breathing gets harder and harder and I'm sure I'm doing my health no favours.

But at last, after hours of pulling and smashing and boiling and burning and cursing and testing and stabbing, I am rewarded. I put the Imperious Curse on a rat, and send it scurrying over the necklace. It goes into some sort of fit; it flies up in the air as if suspended, in agony. If anyone does get cursed, and finds out I'm even partially responsible, they'll kill me, the pain is that bad. To be partially cursed is almost as bad as to be fully, because you bear the full brunt of the pain and there is no oblivion, no relief or end to it. But though the rat is weak, it is still most definitely alive, and shows no sign of permanent damage after a few renervating charms. It's not a desirable solution, it's still a risk. But it is the best chance I have.

_30__th__ October 1996_

I perch up on a stool at the Three Broomsticks, pretending to be reading. But all the time my mind is whirring. I am to give the necklace to Katie in the girls' bathroom, and she is to deliver it.

I watch as Harry, Ron and Hermione enter the pub, and I almost fall off my chair in fright. Of all the people, it had to be them. I curse my bad luck. I have to credit them; they are three very astute people, easily matching half the people I've worked with. (Though some Aurors are as thick as two short planks.) Trouble is, they don't miss much. I need to distract them, in order to reach the bathroom on time and undetected.

I watch them as they find seats at a table and order Butterbeer, and I am still too nervous to move. But then I spot an opportunity- Ron is watching Madam Rosmerta, the pretty barmaid.

The curse is too difficult for me to do non-verbally, so I use the book I am holding to hide my face as I whisper the incantation. There is the satisfying splashing sound of running water that tells me that I have burst a significant pipe in the kitchen. Rosmerta hurries off to fix it, taking the curious gaze of the three with her.

_"I expect "nothing's" in the back getting more Firewhisky," said Hermione waspishly. _

At that I make for the girls' bathroom with that awkward I-need-the-toilet face. The moment I am behind the door the facade is dropped completely. I hide and wait for Katie.

I'm not strong, certainly not as strong as she is, but I have the element of surprise. The moment she comes in I leap at her and pin against the wall. The shock almost sends her flying.

"Listen to me" I hiss. "And listen very carefully." I pull her own wand out from her pocket and point it at her. "Imperio."

She looks almost indignant at the idea of being imperiused by her own wand, but soon her eyes go vacant and glassy.

"You have been told to deliver a package to Dumbledore. You will do this, but I have further instructions for you. You will make your friend Leanne accompany you. You will tell her you have a package to deliver to him. But you will not say what is in it, when she asks, you will tell her the truth: you do not know what it contains. You will not make any efforts to hide the package, you will hold it out at arms length and treat it with caution. You will be indiscreet and arouse as much suspicion as possible. If Leanne tries to take it off you, you will fight her over it. You will appear to be far more concerned about delivering it than logically you should naturally be. Do you understand?"

She nods, passive as a doll, and I hand her the parcel. She trots off, looking nervously around her, and I know it will not be long before the plan fails.

And so I find a spot some distance from the Three Broomsticks. I sit down and begin to wait.


	22. Gone

It does not take long before the answer is dropped in my lap. The necklace fails to reach Dumbledore, which works for me, but I pay a heavy price, in Katie Bell. She was innocent; I was guilty. I can only hope she leaves St Mungo's, and not in a wooden box.

The moment it comes into my thick head that the teachers will be inspecting the necklace; I head off to find Snape.

I catch him just as he goes, and I am desperate.

"Psst. Psst! Oi! Severus!"

"What?" He looks at me, bored.

"You're going to be investigating the necklace disaster, aren't you?"

"yes."

"Well you've got to cover for me! Tell them... tell them it's terrible! Tell them she's lucky to be alive! Thank you goodbye!" I say quickly and go before he has a chance to argue.

_31__st__ October_

Draco was almost spitting nails in the Room of Requirement.

"You will explain what went wrong!"

I am quick to point the finger.

"It's entirely that Leanne girl's fault," I whine. "She kept interfering. I wanted to _slap_ her, I really did but I couldn't without blowing cover."

He pointed his finger accusingly at me. "You'd better have a plan girl, and that plan had better work!"

"Don't worry" I say so softly, he almost can't catch it. "Next time I will get it right. Next time we plan entirely on my terms."

_1__st__ November 1996_

My shift ended half an hour ago, but Joanie, who should be replacing me, still hasn't arrived yet. I twitch my fingers, eager to leave my post. Where is she?

Finally I report back to head office that Mrs. Stanley still has not reported for duty. I ask around, but nobody has seen any sign of her. Where can she possibly be?

I return to our room at the gatehouse, to find on my bed- a bluebird.

It's soft and still, as if in sleep- but its face is troubled, in distress, almost in agony. A tear leaks out of one eye and I bend down to look at it more closely.

As I do, I can smell something. I can smell bluebells. The scent of bluebells... that's the scent of Joan.

That day, when she asked me that question- there was a bluebird behind her.

Joan. My sister. What has happened to her?

And then I realise.


	23. And the Bluebird Sang

**AN: Was going to publish this yesterday, but then... this isn't exactly a festive chapter. J That said I had a great Christmas. Didn't exactly get an Xbox or anything, but I DID get 5 pairs of pyjamas. YAY! (No sarcasm intended, seriously.) And I MIGHT just have enough reading material to see me through the holidays. J**

**Merry Boxing Day, everybody.**

My fingers fumble as I snatch for my coat, and instinct sends me back a second time to retrieve my knives. These are no longer the knives I have known in better times, if better they could be called. They were simply sharpened penknives. Their purpose was to wound, to subdue, to control and pacify. To force a surrender and speed an arrest, should the detained show signs of resisting. But the weapons I hold in my hands are longer, more streamlined. As I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection on the knife, I see Scrimgeour's message could not be clearer.

I know where she has gone, whom she has tried to reach. Only now do I know, and that will stay with me for the rest of however long my life will be. That I, so caught up in my mission, so determined to save that I have not spared. That I, who can spot a plan or traitor in moments, could not recognise the desperate longing of a mother for her child.

_ "What if there was a choice, a choice so important to a person that it consumed them so entirely, burning them up as it were, and they knew that their heart would break without a chance but they knew that they risk hurting something special to them?"_ Oh my- why didn't I _see_? Why didn't anybody see?

I apparate straight to the neighbourhood in which the Staffords live. There's a sinking feeling in my stomach, a nausea that I know has nothing to do with the journey. But I feel oddly heavier, like there's a weight pressing on me; not crushingly though.

It's bleak, but not dark. The sky is flat and grey. Where's the life? Where's everything we long and fight for, but never quite reach?

The wind rustles some decaying leaves at my feet, which flutter feebly, too soggy to take flight or even rustle in the breeze. And it carries the smell of carnage, the scent of blood with it.

I estimate the wind to be coming from roughly the east but I halt before heading towards it. For the first time in my life, I find that I don't want to know. I don't want to know what happened to my sister. I'm too scared to find out the truth, because I know what it will do to me. But I can't go back to Adelaide, my sister's only child, and tell her that I was too cowardly to even look for her missing mother. I can't do that.

The smell thickens like smoke as I head further, and I know I'm getting closer.

And then see it.

The first drop of blood. The first drop of so much that was spilled. I see the taunting behind this, as each drop is exact and symmetrical and I retch at the similarity between the drops, and stepping stones in the children's playground just across the road.

Slowly the drops along the trail start to congeal together as I follow it, making longer lines and streaks on the pavement.

And then I see it. I see the result of my obsession with the righteous. I see what I have bought with ambition's gold. I see how I have destroyed what I tried to save.

I see a dead girl, her limbs broken in a bloody heap. Her pleas for mercy still cold upon her lips. Eyes that cannot see, though once they twinkled with such light. And that rich, heavy hair has been shorn off, denying her her last dignity. An animal, a thing to them- not a person, not as they see a person. No humanity spared.

The blood, the sweat, the mess, the dirt. And I know my hands will never be clean again.

They have taken from me my sister, my sanity, my saviour and my friend, and given me a bloody carcass in return.

For that was her last torture, to be rid of the world that had made her so happy, by means of the curse that killed her husband.

I press my eyes shut so tightly that they water, but the image is burned on my mind and I can feel the horror seeping through them still.

I tremble and my teeth chatter as though one of the killers had hold of my arms was pummelling me.

"Not real, not real, just dreaming, just dreaming," I almost chant to myself, becoming almost singsong. If only there was a way and change things- maybe if I count to seven seven times seven times, everything will be as it was.

Something inside of me knows it won't work, but I drown it out. I have to do something.

I pace up and down biting my lip and counting as fast I can

"One two three four five six seven one two three four five six seven one two three-"

I'm stopped by the sound of footsteps. I whirl around, hand already on my knife.

But it's not a Death Eater- well, not really a Death Eater: it's Draco. I see his mouth agape in horror and I'm about to say something, explaining everything. But then I realise: he isn't looking at Joan.

He's looking at me.

The humiliation at him seeing me like this; so vulnerable, so unstable, sickens me. My head swims with it all, lights pop in front of my eyes. I can feel my knees give way but I don't even try to stop myself falling. Besides, if I crack my head open on the pavement everything goes away.

But then, from nowhere, an arm catches me, pinioning them to my sides. Gently, Draco lowers me to the floor and I almost decide not to put my knife away. I hate the way he's handling me, like a china doll being fixed into position. But I'm in no fit state to complain.

Doll. Childhood. Pain.

Now that the disbelief has been shunted away, grief kicks in. I let out a howl I don't know how old, and Draco almost drops me in shock. I don't care how many people hear me. Gradually I feel as if I am breaking up, as if my heart is actually breaking. Draco's arms are the only thing stopping from me dissipating into sorrow on the ground.

The tears flow unchecked and stream into my mouth, tasting the salty tang of grief. I clutch at Draco like a lifebelt gripping his robes so tightly I can see my nail marks when I let go. He's probably drenched by now.

I'm still dizzy and sick from lack of breath and I take long shuddering gasps over Draco's shoulder, rigidly turning my back from Joan. I don't want to look at her again. I'll be looking at her every night from now on.

"Who- who did this?" He repeats it when I don't respond. "Who did this, Marion?"

Shakily, I point at the message, spelt out in plain English on the wall behind, in large block capitals, eerily like a child learning to write.

In Joan's blood, are written the words that send me on a spiral of fear and despair.

I AM COMING FOR YOU

He turns, and does exactly what I did. He quickly turns and hides his eyes, as if to blot out what he has seen.

"What does it mean?" He begs me. "What does any of it mean."

"It means that a father has broken the last law of nature. It means that that father has murdered his daughter, and nature or nurture could do nothing to stop him. It means insanity is the new weapon of war.

This is what happens, Draco, when a child thinks that they can march to the beat of their own drum, when they believe they can choose their own path, or belong to themselves, and not chained by blood to a life _they did not ask for_. The Rowle children are vessels of Voldemort, Draco. Units in a plan. Numbers in a statistic. Parts in a machine issued with commands. Matter in a churchyard."

"And what about you?"

"And what about me, you possessive stalker?"

"You are alive."

"You want to know how I'm still alive? Or why? Every day I've had I've fought for! Because every day is live is another small victory for me, it's another day he hasn't got me. I'm an emaciated bitter sociopath, but don't count me out!"

He looks at me passively. "You need me." He says. "Don't deny it. You need me just as much as I need you. When all is said and done, we're all we've got."

I feel my temper flare up. I do nothing to suppress my anger, if anything it's a distraction blocking the terror lurking behind me.

"How the hell did you follow me? You're not supposed to use magic outside Hogwarts. Fat lot of use you are to me if you get expelled."

"Followed you in Hogwarts, under a Disillusionment Charm. Caught hold of your robes when you Apparated, then came as soon as I knew you had found trouble. Don't think you are the only one who can play this game."

"And you think you are such an enigma? Come off it. I've seen you around for years. I know you. You've been spoiled all your life, you are brainwashed into thinking this life is cool and edgy and taboo. Then you get to Hogwarts and you see others around you who are equally as talented, equally as confident, equally as good-looking- admit it! You are still insecure inside as to who you really are that you feel threatened by them instead of empowered or inspired. You pick on the weaker ones to make you feel stronger, because they represent on the outside who you really are on the inside! And now you get to this stage in your life when the fun and games stop and reality sets in. Your delusions are shattered and you realise that the trap has closed, without you even realising it. You see only a three-way route; fail and be killed by Voldemort. Succeed and live the rest of your life guilty and unhappy. Or surrender to the Order, and live the rest of your life miserable in Azkaban with your father. And then reality forces you to team up with the girl you have openly despised since you came to Hogwarts. And don't pretend I'm nothing in all of this. I am not Pansy Parkinson, who will unconditionally adore you and pet you. I take no prisoners: not any more. I am not your hanger-on, _I am your equal. _I am, and I'm not afraid to say it! Blabber what you will! No matter how much money or strength comes between us, we are equals!"

Something in Draco snaps. "And you think you are better? Or exempt from scrutiny? You are _equally _guilty! And don't think I don't understand everything.

You live in perpetual fear half your life, with only brief snatches of anything resembling structure. You are unwashed, hungry and paranoid with fear of the colossus in your life- your father. He frightens you in every way, and he fascinates you with the power he wields. You are stifled and suffocated, and since you associate everything to do with your father with evil, everything he believes in you make yourself the antithesis to. "Moral instincts" have nothing to do with it. You just can't stand the idea that this man whom you must call _father_ can in any way be similar to you.

Then he murders your mother and you are left on the pity of those who have none. You are sent to live with _Dumbledore_ and you attach every happiness onto him. Your sister is far away, your father imprisoned, your mother dead. Finally, you think, there are no reminders of the old days. You think, naively, that you can just "forget" and get along fine. But you can't, you never could. You are stalked by thoughts and nightmares and you remember the frustration and the fear and the oppression and you hate it. It wells up in you, this- this _tide _of hysteria. You present a mask of all bubbles and smiles to your friends, but inside you are bitterness and resentment. And you are still determined to forget, to bury everything in the sands of time. So you channel that hysteria the only way you know how- your education. That's how you can tolerate a ridiculously heavy workload. It's nothing more than educational fanaticism. And then, when school is over and more horrors are in store, you bury yourself in every hobby under the sun, keeping up old interests as well as beginning fresh ones, all to sustain focus on something else, something that won't stalk and kill you, something to cling to and hold on to. To feel special. You become obsessed with political power, with everything it represents: the greed and corruption of our world. You want to be the one with all the power, so that you will never be oppressed again, so that you will change things, feel worthy and wanted. You also want revenge but you don't know how.

And every time you watch fathers and their children in the playground, and you wonder- are you defective? What's wrong with you? Why are you so different? The black sheep, the one didn't work out. Why is everybody else happy and you are not? And you see that playfulness and that carefree innocence which you know you will never, ever have-"

"Stop it!" I yell at him. "It's not funny! Whatever you're doing, stop it! Because I can't stand the idea that he could just figure me out, that I am the secrets are out and I am completely understood. I feel weak, I feel bare, and I feel like a simpleton.

And then suddenly I'm laughing hysterically even though there's nothing to laugh about. Because there's nothing to laugh about.

"It's bloody ironic, isn't it?" I scream. "I'm going to get killed by the very people who should have supported me. Or I kill them, and become as equally despicable myself. And think what you want about me Draco, but I don't enjoy killing. Death Eaters are bad enough, people who I do not know, maybe never even seen before. But a close relative, or worse a parent, that is the one thing I cannot do. What if I had children? How could I look them in the eye and tell them that I murdered their grandfather? Because it is murder, all of it is! No. I am not Bellatrix Lestrange. I am not Barty Crouch. I am Marion Popyngcart, and I wouldn't do that. I cannot."

I turn back to the crude message painted onto the wall.

I AM COMING FOR YOU.

_"I've found someone, and I think they like me back."_

Who knows what could have happened, had things been different. Poor Adam.

How brief is happiness in this life, now it is gone.

Just like the bluebird.

_And the bluebird sang_

_From above the tree_

_It sang for you_

_And it sang for me_

_It sang for the happy_

_It sang for the free_

_It sang for the hope_

_It so wanted to be_

**AN: Funnily enough, I discovered yesterday in a piece of Christmas cracker trivia, that the bluebird is an international symbol of happiness. Freaky coincidence.**

**I've just noticed I have a tendency to kill OC siblings. That's probably a habit I should break, might get a bit repetitive after a while.**


	24. Prying Eyes and Poison

_"They're not the only ones; I've got other people on my side, better people!"_ Draco Malfoy, The Unbreakable Vow page 303 of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

_8__th__ November 1996_

The next week passes in a haze of grief and confusion. Every morning I wake up and drag myself into being. Everything takes so much _effort_. I have to slow everything down, taking things one step at a time.

Press on, I think. Don't look back. Look forward. Because looking back turns you to dust and nothing more. There is only tomorrow left now. Isn't that what you always wanted? To live?

I get up. I dress. I guard. I have breakfast. I guard. I have lunch. I guard more. I have dinner. I read. I guard. I go to bed. I have nightmares. I sleep. I have more nightmares. Rinse and repeat.

Everybody tactfully keeps their distance. Dumbledore sends for me less and less, deciding that our plan should be one in which only Draco and I are involved. He tells me nothing of what he has been teaching Harry in their classes; and for the first time I am not inquisitive and simply keep my distance.

Everybody else merely keeps away or talks only in mundane banter. Especially when I start to wear Joan's old clothes.

Draco and I have met more frequently over the past week, but have so far not said more than two words to each other. If any of this has taught him anything, it is that the danger is very real. To him; and also to me.

Yesterday was the day that I said my last goodbye to Joan. 24 years of life ended in a draughty chapel not far from Dufftown. I was as stiff as the pew I was sitting on, and quieter. I barely moved throughout the entire service.

Albus spoke at the funeral, another thing I am grateful to him for. His words carried me off to another place; another time. This only hits harder when I remember again and again that I will never see Joan laugh or smile again, that I will never see her old or surrounded by her grandchildren. Her life has been stolen and nothing I can do or say will change anything.

I have lost the game again.

Draco stands beside me at her grave; long after everybody else has cleared off, taking their condolences with them.

He pinches my hand lightly to let me know that he is there, but I don't so much as turn my head. I remain fixated on her tombstone.

_And the bluebird sang_

_From above the tree_

_It sang for you_

_And it sang for me_

_It sang for the happy_

_It sang for the free_

_It sang for the hope_

_It so wanted to be_

_Once you were happy_

_And now you are dead_

_But I'll never forget_

_The life you led_

Joan Mary Stanley

6th May 1972-1st November 1996

"What happens now?" He says, almost as if he were addressing the grave itself.

"Is this the end of the line? Do you just go on the way you did before, ignoring the people who are hurt by your endless schemes? You've certainly done as much harm as you have good. When will the lives you sacrifice be worth the lives you save? Where do we go from here?"

"We go on as before. May I remind you that I have an objective to fulfil here; I need to get you out of this alive."

"And how many people are you willing to let go of in the process? So far we've achieved nothing and we've almost killed Katie Bell. You are so caught up in this war, in what you are doing and planning. I know you. You will not be content with merely assisting in defeating the Dark Lord. You want to completely eradicate him, to crush him like a bug under your foot; he is so much everything that you despise. He is the focus of your anger. How do you know that you are even right?"

"Of course I know that I am right. I would not risk everything for something of which I was not absolutely certain."

"So you know that you are supporting the right side or making the right decisions? You say you fight for "the good" but you don't fight like one of them. Don't you know how dangerous you are?"

"Look, do you want to make a plan or not?" I snap. I wish he wouldn't step into my head like that.

"OK then. What's plan B?"

"Poison." I can't believe that I am doing this, discussing the murder of my mentor at my own sister's grave. But then, I suppose that I have grown to find that very little shocks me anymore.

_29__th__ November_

Dumbledore has sent for me again, and I am about to turn over the cards that I have shuffled when Horace Slughorn comes into the office and I instinctively sweep the cards into the drawer underneath the table to hide all evidence of Seeing. Another secret. I don't have skeletons in my cupboard, I have a whole cemetery.

He's looking very mischievous and merry, and there's a gleam in his eye that is either early Christmas festivity or one brandy too many.

"Ah, evening Headmaster. May I borrow this young lady? Christmas decorations don't put themselves up, you know!"

I thought that was what a wand was for.

"Really?" I say innocently. "It's still November. A bit early to be putting up decorations, wouldn't you say?" I know he doesn't really want help with decorations. He wants to know what Albus wants for Christmas.

"No harm in being prepared!" He wags a finger at me playfully.

"Marion, you may help Horace with planning his Christmas party. Just the sort of distraction that you need."

Reluctantly, I slide off my chair and follow him out of the room to his office.

"Now my dear" he says as he takes a seat behind his desk. "I need your help in finding a Christmas present for Albus."

How did I guess?

"Not a book," I say automatically. "Did you know, one year he got twelve signed copies _of the same _first edition?"

"Really?" Slughorn begins to look a bit anxious; I know he was thinking along those lines. "Well, what should I get for him then?"

"Something edible." I say instinctively.

Because it is easier to poison food.

I can feel the vague beginnings of a plan forming in my head. I know Slughorn well enough- anybody could tell- that if Slughorn intended to give a gift of something tasty, chances are he would keep it for himself. I hesitate at the idea of poisoning a good man- but if he does take it, then it won't be so bad will it? Of all people, Slughorn is the most likely to survive poisoning. He teaches Potions, for goodness sake; and he has self-preservation down to an art. Anyway being continually pestered by Death Eaters would. He'll have antidotes everywhere to grab at short notice. And it's not like I'm going to make things difficult for him. I'll make sure that the poison is bezoar-curable, and any idiot knows that the first thing you do when you think you've been poisoned is to take a bezoar and stop moving. And if that doesn't work then you probably wouldn't know the antidote anyway. Also, it'll be a poison that works slowly enough to give you a chance to grab the aforementioned antidote.

If my heart were truly in this, I could have made it so much harder. There are some poisons that are completely asymptomatic; you don't you have been poisoned until it's too late. Something that makes you foam at the mouth, yes, that'll be the one I choose. That's an obvious enough sign for someone to pick up on.

"Hmm… let's see now- I know of someone who sells the most delightful oak matured mead, it is truly delicious. Do you think he would like some of that?"

"I'm sure it will be most fine."

_19__th__ December_

"You sure this is the right poison?"

"Positive."

"Works quickly, does it?"

"Knock him stone dead in a minute."

Draco takes the bottle and the bluish liquid inside it swirls gently, lapping the sides of the bottle.

"This time, as you have said, there must be no more mistakes. I will poison the wine myself."

I grit my teeth to stop myself from saying something which I think I would regret later.

"Fine. Your call."

"When will I be able to reach the mead?"

"Slughorn's holding a Christmas party; it'll be a good excuse for you to be near his stuff."

"Indeed. I want you there; keep an eye out for any trouble. If you sense any trouble, you alert me, do you hear me? Knock some furniture over, whatever. "

_21__st__ December_

I am one of the first to arrive at Slughorn's party and the lack of people allows me full scope of the place. The soft hangings in warm colours bathed in reddish light gives the room a rather soporific feel and from Slughorn I should have expected nothing less. If there is one thing in common between a Slytherin and a Hufflepuff it is the ability to plan and host a social gathering, if with slightly different motives.

I sneak behind a thin hanging and curl up on the floor, my pocket clanking against my leg. I sincerely hope that I am not searched tonight for it would be hard to explain away why a party guest could possibly have a syringe containing chemicals in the pocket of her dress.

I shuffle further back as the first of the guests begins to enter. The usual crowd, the Slug Club, and King Slug himself.

I stiffen as I see a vampire called Sanguini making his way towards me and some other girls, looking hungry. His friend shoves a pasty in his hands, but somehow I don't think that will sedate him for long so I slip out of my hiding place and go to "mingle" with everyone else, delighted to note that my dress is virtually identical to at least half of the room. I should slip past unnoticed.

I hear Hermione talking about McLaggen and for a moment I'm tempted to eavesdrop, as I am far too interested in other people's lives for it to be healthy.

Out of the corner of my eye I spot Severus so I decide to make myself scarce. I am just debating whether it would look conspicuous if I nicked myself a snack, when Filch comes stomping in, dragging- by the ear- Draco.

What the hell is he doing here?

"…lurking in an upstairs corridor..."

What? Anyone would think he was keeping tabs on me. Honestly. Has he no faith in me?

But my inner ravings are interrupted when I notice that Harry is now looking at Draco- and since he notices everything and everyone, now is my chance.

I tread carefully around the side of the gathering, where it's all eyes on Draco now; and race for his private drinks cupboard around the corner in his office, grateful that my flat ballet pumps make no more sound than a light patter.

I can feel the adrenaline rising and I have to force my hands to be steady as I grab the bottle around the neck and ease in the hypodermic needle. My fingers throb, my knuckles turn white as I slowly squeeze the plunger down. Quickly replacing the bottle I stride out of the office by a side door and quietly join the party, as though all I have done is powder my nose.

I have a sinking feeling as I bump into Luna:

"Oh hello. Haven't seen Harry, have you?"

"No, he's gone to the bathroom."

I can feel my finger instinctively twitch the corner of my pocket. What does Harry know? What's he going to find out? I can't stand here and wait for everything to be unravelled. Any look could be the glare of prying eyes. I don't want him to find out. He mustn't find out or everything is ruined.


	25. In the Shadows of the Soul

_"Of course, that makes the person behind this even more dangerous in a way, because they don't seem to care how many people they finish off before they actually reach their victim."_ Hermione Granger, Elf Tails, p378 Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

_22__nd__ December_

I find myself getting more and more excited as Christmas draws nearer. This year I must face festivity without her smiles, her jokes and her joy. But Adelaide is still alive; and since her mother has gone I remember seeing more and more of Joan in her. The way she tilts her head when she asks a question, as if the query will look different from another angle. The upbeat in her voice, Joan's flesh-and-blood legacy, the stamp that Joan made on the world that could never be removed.

She had been such a comfort to me; even though she didn't know. Even though she may never really know me. I always felt uplifted with her, as if my life has a broader, a higher existence. I felt- almost like a child. For all the misery there is in the world, there will always be that one last smile,that lives in spite of itself.

I thought that maybe I might be free. That I could visit her. At least allow myself that hope.

I was humming to myself as the owl dropped the letter on my chair. I thought nothing of its formal manner until I had slit a corner and glimpsed the writing underneath.

Scrimgeour. I braced myself, one hand on the window sill, sitting on a chair as I slid open the paper to read my next orders, my next sacrifice.

_I write to inform you that your niece, Miss Adelaide Lucy Stanley, has been transferred from her former residence, along with her guardians Mr. and Mrs. B. Stafford, to Mayhill House in Swansea, Wales, due to security reasons._

_You will not be permitted to engage in a visit with the family over the course of the festive period, also for the reasons mentioned above. Due to the probability of owls being searched, no letters may be exchanged until the Ministry has deemed it clear of hazards._

_This letter will self-destruct in 30 seconds._

No family. Alone again.

I crumple up the letter and fling it across the room; and as that even that proves unsatisfying, continue to defile the parchment further until it obeys its own command and promptly destroys itself.

_Christmas Eve_

"_Ron!_ Don't you ever let me see you throwing knives again!"

Molly says this just as I slip through the kitchen. Awkward.

Like other members of the Order, I will be staying at the Burrow for Christmas Day- but I couldn't stop myself from snatching myself a few extra hours at the Burrow. I've learned what a precious thing happiness is, so I'm determined to get what I can when I can. I have no idea if I will live to see another Christmas.

Joan didn't.

For the first time in weeks, I've had the chance to get Draco out of my mind- but the plan still lingers in the back of my head. I keep expecting an owl to crash through the window, or for Kingsley to rush in any minute shouting "Dumbledore's been poisoned!"

All this time I have been waiting. But one day my chance will come.

And when it does, I'll seize it and never let go.

_Christmas Day_

I slip a dress over my head. It has a swirly swirt, but I'm not tempted to twirl. It's lovely, but I don't feel the urge to dance around the room pretending to be a cygnet from Swan Lake. Not any more. On the spur of the moment I take it off again and just sit in my room staring at the wall. I don't want to wear it any more. Feels like a shroud.

I put on a jumpsuit which feels sturdier and nod at myself in the mirror. Much better.

After lunchat the Burrow, who should turn up out of the blue but Percy Pig himself? And Scrimgeour. I'm determined to avoid Scrimgeour as much as I can get away with. But obviously, he's not here to see me. It's Harry he wants to see, of course.

I'm desperate to eavesdrop, but the ground is covered in snow, making footprints highly legibile. I peer from around the corner of the curtains in the window to find out as much as I can. From what I can see, things aren't going very well.

"What are you doing?" I jump and spin round to face Percy Weasley. I wonder how long he's been watching me. Then I contemplate whether or not he has been watching me at all, as his glasses are completely obscured by what looks like mashed parsnip.

"I might ask you the same question, Perce. Why are your glasses coated with what looks like masked parsnip?"

"The twins and Ginny," is what he offers by way of explanation. He looks crestfallen; and more than a bit frustrated.

"No need to look so downtrodden, Perce. They love you really."

"Oh yes? And how do you know this?"

"Because mashed parsnip was all they could bring themselves to throw at you."

I leave the house at around eight o'clock, it being winter it always gets dark much earlier so shadows greet me as I begin to walk out of the house and along the road.

I Apparated to a place a little under a mile away from my destination. I never Apparate directly home, I have always preferred to walk the familiar paths that lead there. The familiarity is soothing in an ever-changing world.

Until something make me stop dead in my tracks.

It is said that it is a sign that you know a person very well when you can tell their indentity by the sound of their footsteps.

I hear a footstep that is very familiar. One that I have been listening out for for all my life. The shuffling stomp that silences all sanity from my head and life in my heart. The step that means it is time to stop and wait and fear.

I'd die a thousand deaths, if only to never see those eyes again. Those cold grey eyes, that mirror so well my own. That tell me of the fate I am bound to, what I am certain to become.

If I'm not as mad as him already.

Now I know that hell truly is on earth, as the blood that courses through my veins, the blood that chaines me to him runs cold. I draw a knife from inside my coat; and in the glimmer of its reflection I catch a flash of blond hair and that eye. It is a belief that the mirror reflects the soul; and I can see only him. It's always been him, him and me both bound to destroy what the other created. Both killed by the one they were meant to love.

I cannot run. I cannot hide. I can only turn and face what Fate has dealt me.

For in the shadows of the street lurks my father.

Waiting for me.


	26. Three Blind Mice

**A.N: I hope that this is a satisfactory chapter.**

My fingers curl around my wand and clench it tight, my knuckles white in the darkness. Knives aside, this slender stick of wood is my best chance of survival. I am alone in the street. There is nobody to fight in my defence but me.

But there is nobody with him either. I can tell from the way he takes quick looks around that there is no-one here to watch his back for him.

Just him and me. Just as it has always been. I'm the one he has always hated the most. Because I was not passive. Because I challenged him, questioned him, because I could look so much like him. I was his shame;as he constantly reminded me. But maybe I am also his fear, my existence a nagging fear that plagues him. The fact that as hard as he tries, he can never quite take life from me; or hope. But you would have to be a pretty sick paranoid person to regard a wandless toddler as a threat, but he did. He nursed his special hatred for me far better than he ever nursed me. And while he would kill Harry for profit, if his master told him to, he would kill me for pleasure. Purely for the joy of watching me scream as he rips me apart. Sometimes I wonder if he realises we are -were his family. Or maybe that just adds to the fun.

I shoot a jet of silver light in his direction that illuminates him, just as he draws his wand.

Azkaban has truely changed him; and not for the better. There are bald patches on his head, his eyes are sunken, nails glinting in an ashen coffin. His looming bulk is as intimidating as ever, his nails are crusted with blood and his hands contort themselves into claws. And there's something in the way he walks, in the way he looks unblinkingly at you, something that all Azkaban inmates share after a few years. It's bitter, it's aloof, hurt and vengeful.

He begins to growl something that I can't quite catch. Then I realise- it's singing.

_"Three blind mice," _he croons. _"Three blind mice._"

He casts a Killing Curse straight at me but I'm ready for it. I swing my wand arm across; a brick is ripped out from the base of a wall and flies out to meet the Curse. It glows with a green light as spell and brick collide; and my father yells in shock as the rest of the wall collapses on top of him with the force of my spell.

I turn; and I run. My vision blurs as I race away,I can barely breathe. I skid to a halt; and bile clenches my throat as the rasping voice lifts in refrain.

_"Three blind mice, three blind mice, see how they run, see how they run."_

The gauntlet's down. I can play the game, this dark and dangerous game or I can surrender all hope of standing a chance against him. This is how he breaks his victims; and the only way to end the game is to beat it.

_"They all ran after the farmer's wife," _I slowly turn around, drawing a knife. _"She cut off their tails- with a carving knife"_ I turn the blade over and over in my fingers, the blade winking at him.

His grimace blooms across his face. "I see you have learned to play the game."

I sweep a false bow, as if we were about to dance, my knife slicing through the air. "The game which you have so _artfully_ taught me."

"But are you the mouse or the farmer?"

I am genuinely caught unawares. What is he talking about?

He leers at me, revelling in my ignorance. "You see? You are _nothing_. Nothing but a little blind mouse, stumbling in the dark, unaware of the trap ahead."

I am tempted to throw his spite back in his face; "oh, you mean the hardly-covert plan to force the Malfoy boy to kill Dumbledore? Your lack of originality is _pitiful."_

But I can't. I have to keep up the pretence.

"I- I don't know what you mean!"

"_I don't know what you mean_," he says in a mocking voice. "Then listen:

_"Three blind mice_

_three blind mice_

_see how they run_

_see how they run_

_they all ran after the farmer's wife_

_who cut off their tails with a carving knife_

_Have you ever seen such a thing in your life_

_as-_"

I move into a more balanced fighting stance.

_"Three-"_

I raise my wand.

_"Blind"_

I take a deep breath.

_"Mice."_

The last word acts a starting gun for what may be my last fight. Killing Curse after Killing Curse whistles past me; dangerously close. I can feel the anger in each one, though no words are spoken. I try to remain impassive, try not to lose focus and let my total panic run away with me; but gradually I am dragged deeper into this well of hatred and soon each curse turns personal.

I block a slashing curse aimed at my leg, he blocks a curse aimed directly at his face. And then we simulatenously cast Disarming Charms.

Our wands fly out of ours hands and clatter into the gutter to my left.

We hesitate, analysing each other's intentions, positing ourselves ready to I can think of is how imperative it is that I get my wand back. A knife is too risky an option: I can't kill him; and killing him is the only option of hurting him with a knife that doesn't run the risk of him pulling it out and flinging it straight back. My eyes narrow and my breath catches in my chest.

Then he makes straight for his wand.

I may have faster reactions, but he is faster physically and has a nanosecond's headstart. He reaches the gutter first, but he has a moment's weakness when he hesitates to bend down to retrieve his wand.

An oppurtunity I would do well to exploit. I fling myself down onto his arched back, using all of my weight to push him down. I hear his grunt of surprise, but my success is short-lived as he throws him off of him like a rag doll, smacking me hard against the pavement.

The little dignity we retained in our duel has vanished by now. It's replaced by something brutal, something primitive. We have ceased to be wizards and become animals.

Just another animal for the slaughter.

His blows rain down on me hard and fast and I feel giddy with the pain. One blow strikes my nose, but it's nothing a quick _Episkey _couldn't solve.

We struggle for what feels like hours and defence becomes increasingly difficult to maintain.

He gets up off of me but before I can leap to my feet he pins me down with his foot, his shoe digging into my heart as if he would crush it.

He is heady with a sadistic delight; and he can barely contain his jubilation. His voice is shaky with excitement as he deliver his final denunciation.

"_You_," he spits at me. "You dare think yourself worthy to walk this earth? You dare to think of the true wizards as your equals? You defile the name of magic, you defile the name of human, you even defile the name of _beast_.So next time you see your filthy little life for its true worth, don't go running to your fellow blood traitors. Do the right thing, the decent thing. Clear the world of you and your disgusting ilk. Make way for the true race, the master race!"

I begin to shake under the full force of his vitriol. He lowers face down to mine and almost hisses his next words.

"You should be grateful that I'm willing to do it for you."

I struggle against the force of his grip, writhing up in resistance. He smashes me back down again, but not before I've had the chance to arch my back enough to inch my fingers along the back of my jacket and unzip the pocket that hides a knife.

"What are you gonig to do now, _father_?" I accuse him bitterly. "Going to rip me into little pieces and leave me to rot? Like you did _my sister_?"

He raises his other foot, aiming his heavy boot carefully at my head.

"Of course not," he almost purrs. "Then I wouldn't have the satisfaction of watching you see your pretty little brains scattered all over the pavement."

His boot comes down hard towards my face, so close I can feel the sole brush my nose. I bring out my knife from behind my back and slam it with full force into the sole of his foot. His boots are thick but I twist the knife up inside as he howls in agony. I seem to have hit a vein as his blood sprays my face. I blink it out of my eyes as he staggers off of me, crippled by the pain.

I swipe my wand out of the gutter, wiping mud off with my sleeve. I can feel savage emotions bubbling inside me that are praying for an outlet.

"Look at _you!_" I cackle at him. "Oh _yes_, I am the Dark "Lord" 's most _loyal, _most _faithful _servant, but all it takes to defeat me is a twelve year old girl with a bit of sharp metal in her pocket!"

My head reels and I stagger over to the gutter and lose whatever strength I was retaining in my stomach. I spin round when I hear his grunt of pain. He has reached his wand, but values his life above mine too much to die in killing me. He inches himself to his feet, turns on the spot and with a faint popping sound he is gone.

I don't hesitate. He could be back in a matter of minutes, his foot healed and ready to fight. I clean the knife that he dragged out of his foot; and make good my escape.

When I reach my home I am a shuddering wreck who can barely walk. I treat my wounds, the bruises and lumps blooming on my torso. I crawl into my bed and wrap the blankets into a cocoon around me, trying to block out the world around me; and wishing, not for the first time, that I were on a deserted island, with only Adelaide for company.

_8th February_

I keep myself to myself for the rest of the Christmas holidays and return almost eagerly back to work. January passes silently and without regret. Draco and I do not dare to plan further until the results of my poisoning scheme are revealed.

It is only on this day, a week into February, that I stop and think about how old I am. I must be at least thirteen by now. I roll the strange word around in my mouth. Thirteen. I am now thirteen years old.

_1st March 1997_

"I don't believe it." Draco's voice is flat, no expression in it but shock.

"Don't tell me."

"You will have to hear about it at some point. It is far better that you should hear it now."

I grip the edge of the table with my fingers. "Tell it me now; and quickly."

"Ron's just been poisoned. How you may ask? By a certain _bottle of mead_."

Ron.

"I don't believe you!" I erupt. "You're lying! It's not true! It- it _can't_ be true!"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

I am in a frenzy, I pace up and down the room wringing my hands, searching for someone, _anyone_ to blame. Because I can't stand the idea that I'm the one responsible.

"It's all Slughorn's fault!" I blurt out. "If he hadn't given that mead to Ron, none of this would have happened."

"What- no! No, Marion, _you_ put the poison in the mead. Not him. Face it."

I collapse at the base of the table and wrap my arms around one of the legs.

"Is he alive?"

"Yes, no thanks to you." I let out a long sigh, giving myself a minute or two to collect myself. I have just almost killed Ron Weasley. Or I've sort of saved his life, giving Harry time to give him a bezoar. Depends how you look at it.

Draco lets out a weary sigh and sits down beside me.

"Marion," his anger is spent. "I'm not the world's most selfless person, but I'm pretty sure I can tell right from wrong. Two innocent people have been hurt by all of this; and that's two innocent people too many. I say we cut our losses and revert back to my original plan; to look my headmaster in the eye as I kill him."

"No," I say with unusual stubbornness. "Because then I will have failed you."

He shrugs. "It's just been enough to know that there's somebody on my side."

_2nd March _

"Are you here to explain yourself, Marion?"

"Yes, Albus."

I collapse on his desk in fits of hysterical tears.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't know that it would hurt him- how could I have known? Oh, to think how badly this could have ended! I could have destroyed everything that I've given my life to protect. Oh, I am a wretched thing indeed!"

I take a few gasping breaths and fight to keep my voice normal.

"I have done all I can do Albus. I've bought you all the time that I can. I don't know when Draco intends to kill you, but I am sure it will not be until June at the earliest."

He regards me pensively, his fingertips pressed together in thought and nods for me to carry on.

"And when he does, it is imperative that Severus is there to take the job over. I shall keep an eye on Draco throughout that day and I will alert Severus the moment that trouble arises."

"So it is to go as I have intended?"

"With any luck, it should."

"Has your Sight been obscured lately?"

"On the contrary, I have had another dream."

"Oh yes?"

In reply, I dip my finger in the inkpot and draw on a sheet of paper.

I draw a line. Around the line I draw a circle; and around circle and line I draw a triangle.

He flinches at the sight of this symbol, and I can see memories misting in those piercing blue eyes.

"The Hallows," he whispers, more to himself than to me. "Anything else that might help Harry?"

Wordleslly, I draw from my dress pocket Regulus Black's necklace.

The key to seven jewels of blood.


	27. Calm Before the Storm

I come now to the end of my notebook. The pages left are few and far between, the spine bent, the edges crumpled with anxiety and dog-eared from being hidden continually; in pockets, drawers, in doors. I flip back to the beginning pages of the book, to my hurried penmanship and fading ink. Since that day so much has changed. I have been swept along on fast currents, unaware of the boulders ahead that dash me to pieces, the swift turns leaving me stranded and marooned alone.

**END OF VOLUME II**

**Volume III**

"Myrtle, please take this message to Draco."

She pouts and glides indignantly through a sink.

"Why can't _you_ take it yourself. Oh, don't tell me! I'm used to being everybody's servant: _"Do this Myrtle, do that Myrtle oh you are useless Myrtle you can't do anything right!" _She sniffs and begins to float away.

"I would deliver it myself, but I shan't. It's not me he wants to see."

"Then why'd you think he'd listen to me? Who ever listens to _miserable, moping, moaning-_"

"Because you know the meaning of death. You can communicate with him far better than a living person." I do not add to this the undercurrent of my thoughts: _because you are a victim of Voldemort's and I want to remind Draco of what he is. Not that he needs reminding, but you are the best evidence as to why he must remain on my side._

Feeling slightly better, Myrtle promises to talk to him.

* * *

Barely an hour passes until her shrill cries send me in a fit of hysterics.

"MURDER! MURDER IN THE BATHROOM!"

I almost tumble head over heels as I hurtle back towards the bathroom. Who is it? Who have I lost? Who has left my life and joined my catalogue of nightmares?

I peer briefly through the door, which has been left ajar after an obvious conflict.

And it's Draco. I shake my head in disbelief. Not this. Not this again. I said never again.

And then it's no longer him I see, but Tom. Tom bleeding out his life, beyond saving. Then it is Joan, defeated and broken on the pavement. Everyone pays a price for their sin; and mine is paid in blood. Blood that isn't mine, though it is as dear to me as my own.

It feels as if the floor has been ripped out from underneath my feet. I want to run to him, I want to hold him together even as he falls apart in my hands, but I don't. I can't. I turn away from him and seek out Severus, because it is him I need, whatever my screaming conscience may have to say.

I turn around the corner and walk straight into him. Recognising his purpose, I promptly step away and let him pass, knowing the urgency in those cold alert eyes.

He knows the risk as well as I do. We cannot afford to let this fall apart.

* * *

"Marion?"

I start, but the kind hand on my shoulder belongs to Madam Pomfrey.

"Visiting hours are over. You should go."

"Five minutes more?"

Her brow creases in doubt.

"You've been waiting six hours, Marion. I don't think five minutes will make much difference."

"Just a little longer, please?"

She relents. "Fine. Five minutes; and then you will have to leave."

She returns to her office. I lean my head against the cold window and feel the rain pattering against it. Draco has barely made a sound in the last six hours, let alone woken up. I really need to be getting along, but I can't drag myself away. I can't stifle the fear that the moment I go will be the moment his heart gives out, or his potion fails, or he just falls into an even deeper sleep and never wakes up.

My time is up in the hospital wing, so I whisper my goodbyes and get up to go. But then he opens his eyes a fraction; and says my name.

I turn back to him, eager to make amends.

"So you're on my side, then?" He says dryly.

"I never left." Is all I have to say.

* * *

_29th June _

"So this is it, then."

"Yes." Dumbledore looks up from his contemplation. "This is, as you plainly put it, it. By tomorrow, I shall most surely be dead. And it is often customary for friends to sit together on their last night of company, though they may be destined never to sit together again."

"We shall sit together again, Albus. But not in this life."

"Indeed, though with any luck that shall not be for a long time," he smiles kindly at me. "I have to do some resting in peace, my dear girl. And though I am done with this world, you most certainly are not."

"But what am I to do without you?"

"Do. You cannot always follow my orders, you have not. From now on, you shall have to lead yourself. But watch that moral compass my dear, it has a tendency to point away from north."

"I'm worried. Without you, Voldemort will be fearless. What's to stop him from taking everything I have, everything that is dear to me?"

"You. I cannot truly know what will happen after I die, but know this: I did not raise you to be a stranger in another's home, I did not raise you to end your life with your own hands in your despair. Nor did I raise you to live blind to the troubles around you, to live deaf to the cries of others. I raised you like I raised all the students of Hogwarts over the years."

"How so?"

"I raised you to be the best that you could be."

* * *

_30th June _

"You ready for this?"

"Nope."

He grins at me. "Neither am I."

"You do realise that I cannot watch you kill him. I will not be there to urge you on. I cannot stand the idea of Dumbledore knowing the truth. You mustn't tell him, you understand? Feel free to have your moment, go ahead and tell him of the genius of the plan. But do not name names. I am not even to be mentioned, yes?"

"Of course."

I squeeze his arm; and I hope that says what I can't.

_Don't go. Don't join them. Stay here. Stay in hope. _

* * *

I cannot keep my hands steady. I gnaw at my fingers in my anxiety. I cannot shake off the feeling that everything is going to go terribly wrong.

Of course, that's partly what I hope is going to happen. In the eyes of the wizarding world, tonight is a terrible night in history: Dumbledore will die, but there is flaw in every plan. Stepping back and allowing everything to descend into chaos is fine, sometimes it can be quite an effective tactic however once you let go of a situation you cannot regain control of it. The consequences of that may be very different from what anyone expects.

I hide myself in the corner of the Room of Requirement. With any luck, nobody will know I am here. I've put a charm on the door so that people can still use the Room, not to do so would arouse suspicion. I shall just sit and wait it out, bolt my door against the gale and wait out the storm.


	28. As It Was

I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to keep myself as small as possible. All I have to do is sit and wait while my plans are carried out. I may as well get comfortable, I'll probably have to hide out here for a while.

I left my watch in my bedroom, so all sense of time has left me, but when the door to the Room of Requirement opens I am puzzled. This can't be happening, surely. It certainly hasn't been long enough for Albus to have died. So why is Draco here?

I lean forward, careful not to disturb the piles of stacked objects that have been hidden here for goodness knows how many years.

I duck my head down when he looks around in my direction. Nervously, as if he is regretting the action, he opens to the door of an old Cabinet.

I catch a flash of blond hair as the first figure steps out.

I can't stop the shriek that bursts involuntarily out of me and am forced to take further cover as my father sends a Killing Curse in my direction. It shatters the vase of fake flowers behind me, covering me in charred bits of fabric as I begin to crawl out, not daring to get up and run.

More Death Eaters began to make their way into the Room and each one is a stab of fear in my heart. Draco has brought my enemy into my home.

So this is how it is to be then. We promised to protect each other and to work our way out together; each with our own plans in mind. Thinking we were the betrayer and not the betrayed, when really we were both.

I make determined progress towards my means of escape, but a spell behind me forces me to leap forward and blow my cover. I have just a moment to look in the cold grey eyes of my father before his spell knocks me backwards.

I just manage to turn as I fall, so the curse misses my heart, but it strikes my stomach and I feel a sickening lurch as my organs threaten to escape the wound. I clutch myself, holding myself together and look up at them all, trapped and humbled on the floor. Familiar faces; they visit me every night once I close my eyes and fall asleep. My father of course, the Carrows and some others. I glare at Greyback and I know that I've never wanted to kill anyone the way I want to kill him. It would be so much easier than the others, he barely looks human.

He returns my glare and I spot another behind him, one I think is called Gibbon. There's something about him tonight. If I could define it, I would call it a shadow, a cloud, dark and looming behind him. A spark of light in the middle of the cloud, until I realise that's just the moonlight reflected off his wristwatch.

I turn last of all to Draco, who can't seem to stop staring at me. I can see the last year's strain etched on his face, how he stares at my wound as if he can't believe that it is there. Another reminder that the moment he is no longer useful to Voldemort he may receive a similar wound himself.

"Oh, so this is how a Death Eater inaugaral ceremony works" I spit at him. "Draco why didn't you send invitations? To Joanie? To Katie or Ron? Nothing like starting your career by bringing murderers into a school where twelve year olds sleep blindly, thinking they could trust you!"

For a moment, my fury blinds my reason and I snatch a metal pot and hit him on the foot with it. He yelps in pain and another Death Eater mutters something along the lines of "she has a thing about feet."

I feel a welt rising on my cheek as I am kicked in the face. My father's monstrous bulk looms over me, he raises his wand to deliver the death blow until Draco stays his hand.

"Don't bother!" The panic rises in his voice. "She's dying anyway, can't you see? We only have a limited time! Dumbledore could be back any minute! We can't let her distract us! It's just the kind of thing the bitch would plan. Let's go!"

He draws out from his robes the shrivelled Hand of Glory and lights the candle in the centre. He leads them out of the Room, refusing to look me in the eye. He leaves the Room where he expects me to die.

* * *

I have to work fast. I draw my wand out from my sleeveand clumsily seal up the gash along my stomach. It doesn't stop the pain completely but it should keep out infection and allow my organs to stay in.

They did not have time to close the door as they were confronted by the sight of people, waiting people. I hear a shout and then a cloud of darkness obscures everything.

Walking is painful and by the looks of things, dangerous with other people and potentially curses everywhere. I am forced to slowly crawl out of the Room, aware of only very little. I am giddy from the blood loss and I know there is very little I can do if I am confronted again. I long for somewhere quiet to wait and think about all that has just happened, but for now discomfort is my only thought.

Crawling, and eventually dragging myself along the floor is increasingly tiring. I know I must get more help before the situation turns tragic. I lie back against a wall and scream.

I scream without words, but my scream speaks more than I ever could. I screma for Joanie, for betrayal, for lies and hate and death.

Flitwick comes running. He squeaks at the sight of me. "Marion! What's going on?"

"Death Eaters! In the castle!"

"Death Eaters! I'll fetch Minerva!"

"No!" I yell at him and snatch at the hem of his robes. "Severus. Fetch Severus first, tell him everything."

"But Minerva is deputy-"

"Dumbledore would want to fetch Severus! Do it!"

He runs off again in the direction of the dungeons.

I stagger up, but large black spots popping in front of me force me down again.

After that, I have no sense of time or place. Soldiers came and go, the box of horrors opened yet again. I cannot fight for more than a minute at a time and blackouts become longer and more frequent. Everything is dim and dark until I hoist myself up the window and watch as my father torches Hagrid's hut. I watch the flames devour, but I feel nothing. Only shock until the pain kicks in. Nothing is sacred any more. I wonder how many of the Death Eaters at Hogwarts enjoyed their time here? Laughed in the corridors? Sat by the lake? Swore loyalty to the Headmaster, only to turn coat and goad a teenaged boy to kill him?

I know Dumbledore is dead. Something snapped during the battle and I knew he had left me. I don't know for certain who cast the curse, but I'm sure that it was not Draco. Just as I knew that Gibbon would die, I knew he could never do it. That at least is the silver lining of my storm cloud. The Death Eaters may stand and watch as their humanity burns before their eyes, but the ashes remain and blow in the wind, whispering warnings of conscience and stinging their eyes.

Stinging eyes that cry.

* * *

I fetch a blanket from the hospital wing and wrap it around me like a cocoon. I stroke the thick fabric with my clean hand, the gently warming feeling is soothing.

I see the remnants of the castle defenders, a rag taggle of defiant teenagers like me and Order members. I'm sitting alone on a hospital bed the other side of the wing. Hermione came over just now, with a kind hand and gentle words, but I turned her away with the hollow words:

"I know what happened."

I close my eyes and breathe in and then out. And then I am struck by the desire, the sudden desire, to pay Albus one last visit. To say my last goodbyes. I did not intend to, thinking it would just bring up more pain and memories, thinking it would be better to just imagine him as a sweet dream, a vision for what I must do with my life. But I suppose feeling grief and pain would be better than being an empty shell, emotionless.

I visit my bedroom, to choose something to give him for his last journey. I glance at pictures, stroke the spines of books, crank the handle of a music box, the clanking melody discordant when it once was beautiful.

I run the soft velvet of my old quilt through my fingers. Long, purple, spangled with shimmering golden stars. An eccentric choice, but the best one. Ingrained in the fabric are memories. Memories of peace, of better times. Of dreams and hope and a new world beginning. The world I wish to claim. The world I fight for.

The early light catches on the stars, and they light up with a happy fire. I roll the quilt and choose one more thing to help me say goodbye. If my words fail, I can use another's, so I take a book. A special book, a book of tales and adventure. A book of meaning and moral, a book of old and new, a book that taught me to change the world.

The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

* * *

The room where he lies is lit by only a few candles that seem to turn his white hair to gold. Aberforth snores softly in the corner, his goat Muriel beside him. I scratch her fondly on the head before drawing a stool by Albus' side.

He is so still and quiet in death. But he looks peaceful- and is that the shadow of a smile? Perhaps now he can truly be happy, free of the strife in the world.

"Good evening, Albus" I say, as if this were the end of just another day, and not the end of an era.

_"Read me a story, Albus."_

_"But you are a big girl now, Marion. Shouldn't you prefer to read it yourself?"_

_"I can't do the voices like you can. And I shan't be able to understand what's going on if the voices are all wrong. Please read it for me. Please?"_

_"Allright then. Which story?"_

_"Any story- as long as it's Beedle."_

_"Then we shall read together the Tale of the Three Brothers. Now, there were once three brothers..."_

"Your choice tonight, Albus." I give him a wink (an odd thing, to wink at a corpse) and give a nod in Aberforth's direction. "No more Grumble the Grubby Goat, I should think."

I open the book, having marked the desired page with a sherbert lemon wrapper. I take a deep breath, and begin.

"There were once three brothers..."

I continue the story, trying to recreate his calm, measured tone and pause and emphasise in all the right places, just like he did. He was a master of storytelling.

My voice shakes as I come to the ending: "And then he greeted Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this life."

My voice finally cracks on the word "equal" and I close the book, tears glancing off the cover. I lift his arms and place the book in them, front cover face up. Lying there so, he looks as if he were about to open it.

"Well, Albus" I say shakily with an attempt to be jolly. "I couldn't let you go on your journey without a book to read, could I? You would get so frightfully bored."

I smooth out the quilt and cover him with it, as if I were tucking a child into bed. My quilt has become his shroud and he shall sleep under it until another time. The stars shimmer as I cover him, the same way his eyes twinkled. I remember the stars. Albus said they would blaze with light and frighten away all of my bad dreams. And that is what I shall do. I shall try and be those stars.

I kiss him lightly on the forehead, before covering his face.

"Goodnight, Albus." I whisper by way of goodbye. "Perhaps I shall see you- in the morning."

And then I walk away, never to look back.


	29. Binding Conscience

So many of them come to the funeral. From all parts of our world they pay their respects to the great man. For one day, the old hierachy is forgotten and Ministry officials share their grief with Hogwarts students and even house elves. True, some of the grief feels a little forced (Umbridge is such a bad actress) but the sorrow of those who knew him best, and loved him best is very real.

Hagrid carries him out, still wrapped in my old quilt. Somebody grabs my hand and squeezes it hard. I squeeze back, not even turning to see who it is. If their sadness is sincere I'll share it too.

I can't take my eyes off the body as Hagrid carefully lays it on the table. I remain numb to the world around me, even when Hagrid starts blowing his nose really quite loudly. I know I shall never see Dumbledore again, so I remain fixated on him throught the service, only vaguely listening to the little man extolling his virtues, as if they needed expression.

When the white flames engulf him to seal him in his tomb, I almost call to him. Shout for him to come back, that I'm not ready, that I need him. But words at this point no longer hold the meaning they once did. If I can go on without Joanie, I can go on without Albus. I shall have to. I tell myself that whenever I feel about to crack.

I have to say, it is a magnificent tomb. Smooth, perfect white stone, purer white than the clouds that were its inspiration. It looks a little like how the Muggle cartoonist draw thoughts, like little bubbles.

The centaurs fire off their tribute to him, and for me that means more than anything the little speaker said.

As everybody begins to mill away from the tomb, a few come up to me. To offer solace or share their memories of my guardian. The Ministry officials among them seem quite pleased with my reserved attitude and I feel selfishly glad that his death was not expected otherwise I don't know how I would have coped.

He thought of everything, Albus.

I hear angry words about Snape, bitter words filled with a need for vengeance. I am very glad that Severus isn't here to hear them. I hate to hear the tide of hate that is turning against Severus, who once was respected, if not really liked much.

I head back to the castle but on a moment's reflection I return to the tomb and sit in its shade.

"Our business is ended here, Albus. You are dead, by Severus' hand as you wished to be, but I sense that not everything went according to plan. Draco is still out there, he can still be saved even though he fled and is now in the company of Death Eaters. We- I shall have to keep an eye on him. I can't ignore him as if he were just another by-product of a mission. It is my responsibility to help him as I promised him I would. As I promised you I would.

I will stand by the Ministry and by Scrimgeour and I will not shirk my orders. And I will do everything I can, so that Voldemort is defeated and maybe I can love to be alive again."

An owl stops and perches on a branch ahead, a respectful distance from the tomb. He drops a letter addressed to me. In true Scrimgeour fashion, he does not give me my orders face to face but waits until he can send word. He barely acknowledged me during the funeral.

_Shut up your lodgings and report to my office in London in 36 hours. You are no longer required to guard the school, Pius Thicknesse tells me that the risk of an attack over the summer season is unlikely and he has ordered new recruits to be stationed in September so you are superfluous to the equation in Scotland. I have need of your skills in London, you will be required to report for duty at the Ministry everyday no exceptions. That includes any family celebrations or any social events that you are invited to. _

_This message will self destruct._

There goes my intention of being at Bill Weasley's wedding. Molly won't be happy, but I have no choice.

Scrimgeour must have forgiven me my unfortunate heritage. I think Dumbledore's death had something to do with it. He would never dream that I would ever desire the death of the man he considers my idol. Either way, he knows I am willing to work with him. Perhaps now he can trust me and I can bury myself in proper work, instead of the tedious meandering of the past year. It is rather inconvinient, the two most important sites in wizarding Britain at opposite ends of the country. But I am glad to be back in my old city. The long hours and hard work might even be a welcome distraction, even if it means that I can visit Albus' grave as often as I would like to.

I miss him. I never realised, when I was plotting and planning, how much I genuinely would miss him. I expected pain and grief, but I did not expect it to be like this. And I should have known, having had a fair share of pain myself.

I look up to see Fawkes flying overhead. So beautiful and yet so sad. I shall have to move on as he does, to die and yet be reborn again.

* * *

_11th July_

I stand in the hall of my home in Kent, a stranger in a familiar house. The circle has moved, I am back where I started. Living in Kent and working in London. Perhaps I might even resume dancing in the evenings. Perhaps I could get my old life back, and in my hazier moments pretend that the year 1996-1997 never happened and that nothing has changed since Sirius died. Pretend that everything I went through while guarding Hogwarts was just a daze, brought on by a drop too much Firewhisky.

Joanie and I left this place last year, but I only have returned. To a new start, made fresh for me by Dumbledore. An old and familiar slate wiped clean and the empty future waiting to be written.

I unpack all of my possessions and set the rooms to rights. Every time I think of a happy memory in each room I give it a friendly wave, and when I am finished my arm is aching.

Tomorrow I begin work. Work to end this War.

* * *

_25th July_

"For the last time, you're not coming!"

I sigh in exasperation. "But why, Mad-Eye? I'm not that terrible on a broom."

He glowers down at me. At six foot two, he towers over me but I refuse to be intimidated.

"It's not a question of capability, it's a question of trust."

"Dumbledore trusted me!"

"Yes. Dumbledore also trusted Snape, look where that got him."

"But you don't trust anyway except Tonks anyway! Why can you trust Dung more than you can trust me?" I feel snobbishly stung.

"I know what's what with Dung. He is a coward and a worm but he tells the truth, even if it takes a while. You, on the other hand, are secretive, ruthless and I suspect a manipulator too. I have good reason not to trust you."

I open my mouth to retort but to my irritation words fail me completely. I simply pull a hurt face and leave, my pride blinding me to the obvious. I leave unaware of the figure reflected in his magic eye, deaf to the warning Second Sight gives me, ignorant of the fact that I shall never see him alive again.

* * *

_27th July_

While the coast is still clear, I take the oppurtunity to warm up with a quick swig of tea. I may not be able to partake in the disguise, Mad-Eye has not deemed me so untrustworthy as to be useless, especially with so many good people's lives at risk.

So here I am, with several other members of the Order just down the road, all of us trying to achieve the difficult: taking down as many flying Death Eaters as we can before they encounter Harry and his protectors. With the tactic of travelling in pairs leaving them vulnerable to outnumbering, it is our task to reduce the outnumbering as much as we can.

There is a park a few miles south from Little Whinging where we have stationed ourselves and prepared for the attack, open enough for clear aim but with a few trees nearby for emergency cover. We are based south- the prevailing wind is north tonight, best for flying up from the south. We discuss the plan as a group one more time before dividing and heading off to our posts. The lights out signal is given and all lamps and wands are extinguished, the cloaks and hoods covering our skin and hair rendering us as good as invisible.

I settle down into position, scanning the skies for the first broom to show up. I can't stop thinking about how Severus might be in there. The chance of him getting hit is relatively small, with distance, speed and reflexes taken into account, even with the group's considerable marksmanship. But the chance is still there. And he is one the best allies the Order has.

I put the thought aside. The risk is there for all of us. Severus and I have a world between us, we are on opposing sides now.

I tense like a spring as the first broom appears in the sky, heading towards Little Whinging. We raise our wands and the fight begins.

We manage to take two down before they have time to react. They respond with a rain of spells. Some cast shield charms to block the hits, while others return aggression. I am forced off balance as the ground shakes, plumes of dirt spraying up from craters caused by spells collding witht he ground. I spin around and send up spells of my own. One misses the flier but catches on the broom's tail and I can hear shouts as he jerks around in the sky, frantically extinguishing the flames.

Overall the battle on the ground lasts only for a few minutes, but those minutes feel so much longer. I crane my neck up at them and judge that they are just a few minutes from approaching our brooms. I search for a hidden advantage, something we may have overlooked.

"The pylons!" I shout, glad that everyone in the force is well versed in Muggle Studies enough to know what one is. "Use them to reflect your spells!"

I duck down again as more spells shoot down, my eyes seeing shadows from the flashes of green and red. I roll back to observe the chaos around me. Spells are blurring into a cloud towards the pylon, some missing but most colliding and boucing off. Only one Death Eater is hit but they are forced to scatter to dodge the hurtling spells. A disjointed order to elevate several feet is executed out of synchronization, leaving two more stranded and sitting ducks, taken down in a matter of seconds.

Down on the ground, we are given the order to disperse, as Thestrals and brooms soar into the sky. Five. We are managed to take down five, all now dead. The battle on the ground is over, but the battle of the skies is barely starting. I feel an arm around my shoulder and I turn away and am led to safety.

* * *

_1st August 1997_

The Ministry has changed even more since I left. It has become less of a fine institution, less of a monument of authority and more a work in progress, well worn and spartan from what I am told is The War Effort. In some ways I like it better now than its days of haughty grandeur. But I certainly don't like its habitants.

Rufus Scrimgeour cannot pick his allies. He may as well take on all their jobs as well as his own for all the help they give him, Umbridge among them. There's also a sense of unease, there's looking over shoulders and whispering in corners that mystically vanishes when he enters the room, replaced by false smiles and eager acceptance of orders. And the fool falls for it all.

It is a sweltering summer and all of us are bubbling 24/7 in a massive Ministerial stew. Some of the witches have actually taken to removing their shoes and stockings and walking barefoot; bliss on tiles and stone but roasting agony on carpet. Memos are used as fans more often than not and only the masochists wear ties. The cause of these sauna-like conditions is the Ministry ventilation system, outdated to begin with and the Magical Maintenance team are a shambles at the moment. Half of them have been drafted as war workers and the other half have no means of motivation at all. My request to head the team and sort it out are met with outrage. A child, managing a Ministry department? The idea! No, we'd much rather boil alive in red tape than the absurd suggestion of me having power. My further (more innocent) suggestion of opening a window is met with sniggers of laughter. In order to open a window I have to do a full risk assessment and then talk to the Maintenance and Auror departments as to how wide I can open it, all for a just a few blasts of fresh air.

It feels strange to be sitting down so much, after a year of standing around and patrolling. It also feels strange to be working on long stretches rather than shifts. It's equally tiring, working from seven til seven and then dance classes until eleven, then bed at midnight and up at six. The days seem to merge into each other and I have to have my watch and calendar on me at all times just to keep track.

When Scrimgeour approves of my work, which consists of organising and updating confidential documents after they have been overseen by him, he becomes more patient with my inadequacies. I become resentful of his false friends, who do less work than me yet receive far more praise. I suppose I am too used to Albus' patience and encouragement. I really must stop judging people at the level I judged him.

It is early evening, when they come for him. I heard the whispers, saw the looks. But ignorance was tempting, too tempting and I yielded, preferring to wait and watch rather than act. And my mistake wrecked our world.

We hear the footsteps, not bothering to conceal the sound for there is no way out of this office.

He turns to me and I could taste the fear in my exhaled breath.

"Are you expecting company, Marion?"

I slowly shake my head.

I grunt softly as he shoves a red box into my grasp and I know that it contains documents too valuable to be let into enemy hands.

"Destroy it. Go,"

But we have run out of time, as the footsteps are moments from the door. I almost poke my eye out as I tap my head to perform a Disillusionment Charm and hide flat against the wall, the box thankfully chained to my wrist and also rendered invisible.

I bite back my scream as the door is blasted off his hinges; and Voldemort himself advances on Scrimgeour, Death Eaters and Ministry workers alike behind him. I look at them all in horror. I cannot tell Death Eater from official, they're all after the same things it would seem. I look at the traitors, who swore they would stand by him in his efforts to destroy their new leader, Voldemort. It is how Dumbledore fell, it is how Moody fell, it is how Scrimgeour shall fall. Betrayed or let down by those who promised to follow them.

Slowly I inch myself around the room, taking a deep breath in as I almost brush those closest to the wall. I keep my eyes fixed on the door, on freedom.

Until the torture begins.

He gives the Minister one chance only to reveal Harry's whereabouts before he reverts to his old standby. I become very glad to be invisible, as I should not like Voldemort to see me trembling like a leaf. it is a wonder they cannot hear my knees knocking, but they have their minds on another matter.

His screams tear me apart, blocking all thought from my head. I look at the doorway. I look back at him. I have to obey my orders. I have been told to go. I must go.

But something clicks in my head. I have also been told to stand by what I believe in. And I don't believe in abandoning Scrimgeour. I am not Dolores Umbridge. I am not Mundungus Fletcher. I am Marion Popyngcart; and I choose to stay. I choose to witness the horror and not flee from it. I choose to defy Ministry and Voldemort both.

With as much will as I can muster, I slip past them to Scrimgeour's side. His face is contorted in agony, his screams a cacophany of pain ringing in my head like a terrible bell. But I made the mistake of not discovering the coup; and I shall atone.

His hand is hot from the torture. Keeping it off of the floor, I grip it tightly and I don't let go.

The interrogation continues, but I do not budge. When the pain comes he grips at my hand tighter and tighter, but as he is writhing around they fail to spot it. Or maybe they are so buried in the sadism they fail to recognise something as pure as a simple human embrace.

What began as eloquent statements of denial become slurred stubbon objections as the curse burns its way through his nervous system, but his will does not crack. When his eyes flicker, or when he seems on the verge of defeat he grips my hand as if binding his conscience together. He never gives in, not when he is almost begging for death does he give away any information: about Harry, or anyone else.

Voldemort becomes bored of the scene, once the screams all blur into each other. He ends Scrimgeour's life with a single Killing Curse and I feel Scrimgeour's hand slacken. Dead but undefeated.

Without bothering to close his eyes they transfigure his body into a small object of some sort- I forget what and take it out for disposal.

I lean my head agaisnt the desk, clenching the hand he held into a fist. He did not give up and I will not give up. Whatever his faults, whatever our disagreements we fought for the same things and we will die for the same things.

My legs are no more substantial than jelly and I crawl out of the office. Defeat seems to physically crush me.

Kingsley comes running and I snatch at the hem of his robes. He whips around and I quickly remove my camouflage. He expels a long breath as he sees that it is just me. Almost gently, he lifts me still shaking to my feet and I lean on him for support.

"The Ministry has fallen" I gasp. "Our leader is dead. They're looking for him now. They're looking for Harry."


	30. The Schoolday Riot

_30th August_

"Unfortunately, we all know why we are here today."

Linda, Will and Colin Creevey all nod their heads. "Country's gone to the dogs." Will mutters. Colin agrees with him, he has reason to. Muggle borns are being expelled from Hogwarts en masse; and Colin's chances of a successful career in photography look poor.

"Incorrect." He looks at me confused. "The country was already with the dogs. But the dogs have turned into wolves."

"Well, we can't just _sit _here!" says Linda fervently. "We have to do _something_. Question is, what can we do?"

"Anything!" Colin pipes up. "At least, that's what Dumbledore always said." At the mention of him he gives me a little pat on the shoulder.

My sleeves are a little overlong and I twist them around in my hands, thinking. "We should get them before they get us."

I speak from the heart. My relationship with this new regime is tentative at best. I resigned two days after the fall of the Ministry, saying that since my methods matched those of Scrimgeour's, I would not be useful to a new and different Minister. That sort of thing is not uncommon; and they accepted wholeheartedly- basically told me to clear out. The state of matters between myself and the powers that be is delicate; at the moment both of us are sticking our hands in the sand and pretending the other doesn't exist, but uneasy peace never ends happily. Something has to give and I would far rather make the first move than them.

"How do you suggest we do that?"

"We beat them at their own game" I whisper, more to myself than anyone else.

"What?"

"If they can take what they want, do what they want, so shall we. What do we want?"

The answer is so obvious, it almost doesn't need to be said.

"To go to school."

"Exactly. Hogwarts School, to be precise. So that's exactly what we are going to do. On the first day of September, witches and wizards between 11 and 17 will do as they have always done on that day. As they always must do. As they have a right to do. They will go to school."

* * *

_1st September 1997_

A massive crowd has formed on the bridge that leads to Platforms Nine and Ten. So many times before have I been on this bridge, but I of all dreamers never dreamed I would be here with this purpose. I am not leading the crowd, Linda and I are at the back, like sheepdogs keeping the rioters in order (or at least to keep things organized.)Will and Colin are at the head of the group, leading them on.

I cannot help feeling that something is very wrong. Besides the fact that we will probably not only break the law, we will smash it and tread on the pieces, there are so many Muggles around, with schoolchildren of their own. Even if they are Obliviated (or killed) shortly after witnessing what is planned today, I should not like them to see it. Then indeed they would have a low opinion of us as human beings.

Children of all ages, shapes and sizes, swarm to the wall that divides the two platforms. All of the other travellers, the ones meant to be there, legally recognised, hurry through first, wary of the large and rowdy crowd.

The first of the interns feels the stone hungrily, but turns disappointed to the crowd.

"They've blocked it!"

I hear angry shouts, but not shocked ones. We planned for this happening. So now, being drawn from coats and satchels and even under hats, are wands, hammers, salvaged pick axes, saws and other tools of destruction. I watch as bricks are ripped out, whole sections collapsing. The Hogwarts Express has already left but the issue of why they are destroying the wall is driven out of their heads by the excitement, the thrill of defiance. It is an unwilling symbol of division, a symbol they detest. And they seem determined to destroy it no matter what.

But this cannot go unnoticed. Station guards come running along the platform, blowing whistles. They are quickly silenced by furious Death Eaters. I feel myself steadily being crushed by the contractng group and I hear shouts of fear, even a few small whimpers of despair.

Then they come. The Dementors; and before long the entire station is surrounded.

"Expecto pat-" Linda's charm is cut off when a Death Eater hits her with a Killing Curse straight to the head.

I frantically push my way to the middle of the terrified crowd,which is itself forced into submission. I find Colin's hand and do not dare to let go. I only have time for one last spell; and I almost crushed to death as the desperate rioters rush towards my Patronus like moths to a light. Or flies to a corpse.

Apparition is difficult with the melee going on around me, but Colin and I safely make it out of London just as the Dementors descend upon the helpless interns- helpless children, children who have deliberately never been taught the Patronus Charm.

I do not hide my disgust.

* * *

_3rd September_

The harder things become, the more I feel inclined to write in my diary, though even that may be taken away from me.

I have six days left until my trial. I am told that it is for vandalism and unruly behaviour, though everybody knows that it is really for every bad thing I have ever done wrong in my life: murder, sedition, treason, heresy and in general not being the Ministry's doormat.

I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop thinking about standing in a room full of people who hate me and would gladly kill me where I stood if that weren't illegal and considered inappropriate for polite society. I can't stop thinking about the chance that I will die alone in prison, never to see a smile again. I can't stop thinking about lying dead in a cold grave in the dismal Azkaban Cemetery, surrounded by my enemies. I can't stop thinking about being trapped, with only death to release me.


	31. Trap the bird, clip the wings

_9th September_

I spent all of last night walking the familiar path that leads to my beloved river. I may never see my home or Kent again; and I am determined to remember as much of it as possible, to look back on my life here. Not the big things like what was going on when what happened,who was there and why. Those little things. The look of the sunlight spreading across the leaves on a grape vine. The swish of the willow hanging in the river. The softness of warm grass. The endless expanse of blue sky.

But once more the beautiful has left me, replaced with the stark black and grey.

My trial- or I should call it by its proper name, my _legal hearing_, takes place down in old Courtroom Ten, deliberately chosen to stir up old memories. My wand is scanned and confiscated on arrival. I give a smile to the passing workers but nobody returns it. You would have thought they were the ones on trial, although come to think of it, they are probably tried every day of their lives now.

I spot the statue in the Atrium and I can feel revulsion burning in my heart. I give a black look, black enough to match my jet robes. It is easily the most hideous thing I have ever seen, the message behind it even uglier. Witches are wizards are poor learners it would seem, for this statue, like its predecessor,is just built on another lie, it is simply that this one is more convinient, to justify the barbarism. If there is an ore of truth in that carved monstrosity of stone, it is that when a Death Eater sees the oppressed, caricatured Muggles on the statue, they are simply seeing their own twisted hearts reflected back on them, weighted down from the Dark Arts and never truly free. All human beings yearn for freedom, yet we all seem determined to entrap each other.

MAGIC IS MIGHT

That title seals my definite horror of everything that statue is. Magic is not might. Freedom is might. There is nothing I want more than to blast that statue to dust but I can't get the image of it out of my head. Like the truth, magic is a beautiful and terrible thing and sometimes I wish it never existed.

* * *

The temperature drops as I descend down to the courtroom floor; and as each level goes by, further and further into the bowels of the Ministry, the more horrid truths reveal themselves, like some twisted game of Pass the Parcel. By the time I stand outside the courtroom I would not be less surprised if a man with wings and horns wielding a pitchfork rounded the corner.

I am not afraid as I enter the all too familiar room. My journey down into the Ministry has sapped all emotion from me, leaving only the almost irrepressible urge to smash, tear and burn.

I am instructed to sit in the chair under the platform. The chains clank greedily, but I have not come here to fight for my freedom only to be trapped again.

I look at the chair. I look at the prosecution.

"I'm not sitting in that chair."

The Minister for Magic, Pius Thicknesse, leans forward, his eyes glinting dangerously.

"What did you say?" His voice is soft, but I'm not fooled. It's the pant of a lion rising.

"I- I'm not going to sit in that chair."

Things have not started well. I have embarassed him, in public. I can hear sounds of surprise coming from the civilian bystanders, those who have been invited in to enjoy my humiliation. Rita Skeeter's Quill is a scribbling away furiously, not wanting to miss a moment.

"You dare defy the law because it is not what you _want?_"

"You forget, Minister. I may be an accused criminal but I am also an individual. As a human being, I could not sit there. The degradation would be an affront to my kind."

"If you do not take a seat soon, you will be most inconvinient to the court. This trail most proceed with efficiency."

"Absolutely!" I beam. "I couldn't agree more!" I remove from my bag a high wooden stool and set it beside the chair. "I shall take my seat here." I hoist myself on top of it. It is very uncomfortable, my back and legs are not thanking me for it, but I will put up with any discomfort for its value. It is the only chair I posess which would allow me to look my prosecutors in th eye; and not up at them.

He frowns at me. "What are you doing? You cannot sit there! You must sit in the chair provided!"

I turn to the public innocently. "Surely it should not matter so very much? How is this chair less worthy than another? I shall not need restraining, I assure you. I have no wand or weapon. Why would I risk attacking you? If I try to flee the courtroom, I will be arrested by Dementors. You don't need chains to trap someone."

"Fine, fine! Forget the chair!" Thicknesse snaps. "Let's get on with it! Are you Marion Anne Ruth Rowle, under the alias Popyngcart?"

I bite back every retort I can think of that might be considered cheeky.

"Yes."

"Biological daughter of Thorfinn Rowle, convicted Death Eater and of Adina Popyngcart, his first wife, deceased as of 6th May 1990?"

"Yes."

He takes a deep breath in through the nostrils, inflating like some giant bureaucratic balloon. Then he gives a world-weary, theatrical sigh.

"Witches and Wizards of the Wizengamot, I am sorry to summon you today." He turns to address them, then back to me. "But the issue of the degradation of today's youth is no longer one we can ignore. We can behold a prime example of it: here," He points at me melodramatically and I can see them all lean forward in their seats, as if I were an exhibit of antiquity.

"Just now you have all witnessed her utter disrespect for custom, convention and authority which as a child and an employee, we expected of her."

It's just a chair.

"Unfortunately, her lack of manners is just the tip of the iceberg. Brace yourselves, members of the Wizengamot, we will be discussing unmentionable things in regard to her."

Why mention them then?

"We begin, with the most minor of our charges against her. Fraud. This girl, over the course of three years, has continually taken money off good, hard-working pureblood families to fund her own extravagant lifestyle!"

"It's called wages. I risked my life for them. I can't really imagine how one can have an extravagant lifestyle on an average of 4,000 Galleons a year. While we are on the subject, might I also remind you Minister, that over the course of the last month alone I have clocked in over 30 hours of what I was told was paid overtime. I have not received a Knut of my due, so if anybody is guilty of fraud here it is most certainly not me."

"Moving on. The accused is also called upon for the disappearance of her colleagues, known as Jaina, Alysha and Branwell, who disappeared last year and were presumed dead."

"The whole matter can be addressed. I will glady testify under Veritaserum, or if you wish you may view my memory of the day in a Pensieve, after having examined my memories as to be real. I did what I believed to be right."

The Minister leans further over, almost blocking out the view of those sitting beside him. In this fight it is just the two of us. Me; and Voldemort's political mouthpiece. The others are simply irrelevant.

"We have not even started on the matter of heresy. This girl is poisoning the minds of her co-workers with her ridiculous and dangerous ideas. Her pro-Muggle leanings are unacceptable and some of what she says is insulting to the wizarding world which blessed the ungrateful child with magic."

"You do not respect my beliefs so therefore I have no reason or interest in accepting yours."

"So you deny fact?"

"Only when it is illegible from fiction."

"In that matter, you are completely illiterate. Bring forth: Exhibit A!"

He holds up one of my Muggle books, sealed in a transparent bag to prevent it unleashing its lack of magic into the world. Several of the onlookers gasp in horror and Umbridge does a very good job of pretending to faint.

"We wonder, Wizengamot, why this girl is delusional? She fills her head with this- this rubbish! This filth! This spawn of heresy!"

"Better to have a head filled with rubbish than a head full of nothing." Bursts out of me before I can stop myself.

He narrows his eyes dangerously, jowls quivering.

"Did you say that to me?"

"I'm saying that there must be some grain of truth in every fable. Otherwise where would it come from? It is when things are darkest that the light is clearest."

"But behold what Muggle _literature _has done to her! How it has corrupted the soul that seven years ago, we tried so hard to save! Countless times over the years she has questioned orders to the point of outright disobedience! If there were more of her kind, the Ministry would not function!"

"I do what I believe to be right!"

He lunges forward and I almost fall of my stool with the shock. And I used to think that it was Fudge who hated me.

"We offered her the chance of redemption. We offered her a place, as a pureblood, in the ranks of the Fatherland! But she turned from the right, eschewed all ancient wisdom. Our noble Ministry has better calls for its attention than those of a pig-headed troublesome wretch, whose only destination is_ hell!_"

He smashes his fist down onto the wooden bench as cheers erupt from the rows of prosecutors. I can feel my chair shaking with the force of their hate. If by some strange chance I get out of here free, I may not make it two paces to the Atrium before I am lynched.

"Time for the vote! All those in favour-"

"Wait!" I jump off my stool and head a half step forward. They regard me with suspicion.

"This trial is not yet finished." I gulp, speaking very slowly to keep my voice steady and not fluting around the roof.

"According to Decree 271. of the Youth Internship Act, an intern who has served the Ministry for over 12 months cannot be legally prosecuted with a reference from a witness regarding character and competence. Without the physical presence in court of such a witness, the prosecution of the accused is not- is not valid."

I dare to look the Minister in the eye, who is almost catatonic with rage.

"And who is your witness?"

I pause. All attention is focused on me, nobody dares breathe in case they miss my last ditch attempt to free myself.

"Rufus Scrimgeour."

I step back and observe my work. My message could not be carved in clearer stone. Let me go, or summon Scrimgeour as a witness. Or admit that he is dead and open up a whole can of worms and enquiries.

He fidgets around, thinking around my words for a loophole. But no spell can bring back the dead. Perhaps the Death Eaters got rid of his body a little too efficiently.

He adjourns the trial for half an hour. The entirety of this time I spend sitting next to Rita Skeeter. Though it is risky for my reputation to talk with her, at least she doesn't want me dead. (Physically though. Verbally she could annihilate me within sentences, but as long as air comes into my lungs I am content enough.)

I sit back down again after the passing of thirty minutes and await my fate.

"Due to time constraints and the difficulty in rescheduling this trial, we have altered your sentence. You are deemed High Risk and therefore, in the interests of civilian safety, are not permitted under any circumstances to enter Hogwarts School, St Mungo's Hospital or Ministry premises. You are not permitted to request or receive the services of any Ministry worker: defined as a Healer, Tutor, Professor or Auror. Any breach of premises will be regarded as trespassing and punished as such."

"What I am ill?"

"What if you are ill? The Ministry accepts no responsibility for your death, before the age of 17 or afterwards. Any lack of contact between you and the Ministry cannot be deemed negligence. Your restraining order is effective as of an hour from now. You have forty minutes to leave Ministry premises."

He bangs the gavel and everybody sweeps out of the room, me tailing out on the end.

I may have evaded prison, but I am now completely alone. No safety net. No support system, I have never been more vulnerable.

I can do nothing but dread whatever they will do next.


	32. Helpless and the Help

_10th September_

I have been in a state of restless anticipation and anxiety. Yesterday the Minister announced the matter to be closed, legally, but I'd be a fool to think it was all finished between us. The Ministry will not be happy until I am forced to retreat. So for now, behind closed doors our battle is far from over.

At around three o'clock in the afternoon, I decide to talk a walk in the garden to distract myself and also to allow myself to be glad that I am still here to enjoy it. I fetched my blue jumper from my bedroom, but when I clattered down the back stairs there was a large shape darkening the glass of the back door's window. I stopped where I stood, on the bottom step.

I was not expecting visitors. Whoever had come to see me today had a very specific reason for not wanting to use the front entrance.

I winced slightly as the door was blasted off of its hinges.

"Well that certainly serves as an answer to my dry rot problem," I muttered to myself, determined not to let three- no, four Snatchers faze me. I have not seen off the devil in order to let some minor demons take me down. If I remain calm, maybe they might do the same.

Wishful thinking.

The Snatchers stride past me and into the house. They look over my possessions and start to rifle through them. I seek out their leader.

"Excuse me for rudeness, but what the hell are you doing in my house?"

"Enjoying a free for all."

"I beg your pardon, but since when did my house become a jumble sale?"

"Jumble sale? Nah, we ain't paying. Nice frame though," he picks up a photograph of Adelaide as a baby, but when he finds he can't pull the photograph out of its frame he merely shrugs and tosses it on the floor, shattering the glass covering while the baby in the photograph crawls out of it, terrified.

"You can't just take what you like!"

"Oh yeah?" He sniggers and leans over me. "And you're going to stop me, right?" he says patronisingly. He pushes me down onto the sofa and pulls my wand out of my sleeve.

"Welcome to the real world, littl'un. You and yer Dumbledore, an' all your dream of a new world are dead as ash."

He snaps my wand in my face.

I snatch a shard of glass from the broken frame and attack him with it. I am tempted to get him in the eye, but I fear that would warrant too harsh a retribution, especially if it kills him. I bury the fragment in his shoulder and he yelps in pain.

"Be lucky it wasn't your neck," I snap spitefully, the hurt evident in my tone.

They keep an eye on me after that. Two hours pass before they go, two hours of book tearing, drawer opening and thievery. Each loss gets me. Maybe they did want my money,my ornaments or my jewellery. But did they have to take my nightclothes? Or my slippers? Or even the clothes I set aside for when Adelaide grows older.

Though their leader is still bleeding from the glass in his shoulder, he does not resent me enough to ignore his sole order: just as he and his crew are leaving he hands me a letter. I open it once they are gone, in case it is a Howler.

But it is not a Howler. It is an invitation.

_To celebrate the commencing of new Ministry reforms, Pius Thicknesse, Minister for Magic, cordially invites you to_

_The London Book Burning_

_16th September 1997, 4pm_

_Your attendance is compulsory_

* * *

I leave the invitation on the kitchen table as I step out into the garden. I don't want that hanging in my pocket like a lead weight when I am trying to think.

Everything keeps coming back. Events, memories. Sometimes I wonder if anything really changes, or if everything just keeps doubling back.

The last light of the day is fading fast, waving of the water of the river. But then that too returns. I stop, my left foot on the last step of the bridge.

It's a Patronus, but I can't tell whose. A beautiful silver doe; she pauses at the edge of the river by the reeds. I move to follow her and she simply walks in a circle once, then strides off towards the trees. It is then that I see, in the light that shines off her beautiful form, a web.

It is a web of silk, but not that of a spider. The glistening thread loops around the branches of the trees, hanging like a canopy, weaving around the trunks and spreading across the ground before vanishing among the reeds.

Ever grateful that the doe found me when she did, I wind my fingers through the silk until I find the loop that marks the beginning. To find whatever lies at the end of the line requires patience and focus.

Slowly, I begin to reel it in, taking slow small steps so as not to disturb the web. I laugh to myself as it leads me around and around the trunk of a tree like a maypole. It takes time, but my curiousity is piqued by whatever lies among the reeds. I watch the thread glide down from the braches as I pull at it, like water in the falls. I wind its softness through my fingers before releasing it onto the ground.

Finally, I begin to reel in the last two feet or so and pull out my catch. Dripping wet, is a wand.

I remove the silk tied around the handle and fold my hands around it. It is shorter than my previous wand and unyielding. It will not serve me as well as my previous wand, which chose me, but I think circumstances will allow for that. In time perhaps, my wand may become better acquainted with its strange new mistress and I might acquire a good ally in this new wand.

I am then overcome by the strange sudden urge to laugh. Not an amused laugh, or a mocking one. Nor is it a hopeful or a triumphant laugh. There is no triumph for me- not yet. Nothing awaits me yet but more strife and sin and threat. I am told I have very little to hope for, that if I am lucky enough to die old I will only die penniless and frustrated.

No, the laugh is a happy laugh; a laugh that wants nothing better to sing itself to the heavens. A laugh because I am still here, because I am not broken yet.

* * *

_16th September 1997_

"So you decided to come. Wanting to join in the fun after all?"

"Hardly." Pius Thicknesse is resplendent in plum velvet robes, not a dissimilar shade of colour to his face last week. I, in stark contrast, am back in plain black with a dour expression to match. "You may celebrate the destruction of enlightenment, I on the other hand mourn his passing."

He shrugs and helps himself to a glass of mead after it has been checked for poison. This regime may relish in displaying its total control but it remains suspicious, as the evil that created it may also be the evil that brings it down. Nobody really trusts anyone else here. Your best friend could turn you in for questioning before you know it. Amazing how loyalty is checked when Azkaban is in question. Everybody swears total devotion to the regime, but those of us who understand the nature of power know full well that this can only last so long before it collapses in on itself, buckling under the weight of corruption and red tape.

But for now, they make their hay. The burning has yet to begin but the masses are pressing into the Atrium, all eager to join in the revelry, even if inside they know they will enjoy it just as much as I will.

The destruction of the written word is treated as a fairground attraction, with long tables of rich food cooked by house elves and served on fine china stolen from Muggle Borns. The Victorian china that belonged to my brother in law's grandmother is on there somewhere, only to be grabbed and snatched at by greedy fingers. What do they care if it smashes? What do they care if I never get it back? If it breaks on the floor the pieces will be ground into powder by trodding feet.

The Ministry does not quite have the audacity to hang streamers and balloons, but festivity is still there, a blanket smothering the barbaric.

Slightly off the centre of the Atrium stands a massive pile of books, stolen by the "infidels" or ransacked by bookshops or libraries. Books that may once have been treated lovingly by Irma Pince, or handled by Hogwarts students seeking answers to essay questions all meet their demise here. From where I stand (in my humiliation, next to the Minister and Umbridge and the Heads of Departments, all of us on a raised platform, with a railing to protect us from being crushed by the crowds- such fate is for the lowly) I cannot make out their titles, but I know that they all have one common theme: all the books, whatever their genre, whatever the blood status of their author, all are at odds with Ministry ideology and therefore cannot be tolerated.

Off to the side, safely out of the way of the pyre, stands the plinth of the Ministry-approved literature. Books by pureblood, pro-Voldemort authors. Books supporting their ideas and way of life. Rita Skeeter in particular and her new book The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore is on especially lavish display. I dislike their readers, who now shout their praises and crudely condemn those on the pyre, but I hold nothing against the books. To do so would contradict everything I consider to be liberated speech and free art. I do not wish to dispose of those on display,I just pine for diversity, for richness of culture and this barren and flat expression starves me, not of food but of higher things.

The crowd eagerly presses around the pile and the signal is given for the books- now just torchwood for a bonfire- to be ignited. Instinctively I press my eyes shut, not able to bear the sight of this most foul of acts. I feel ashamed (not as ashamed as the arsonists should be) that my pitifully plain diary lies safe at home under lock and key, while far greater and more esteemed works go up in flames just for saying what they want to say, what they have to say.

Thicknesse's voice curls itself into my ear. "You will watch this; and you will smile."

Ironically, a Muggle quote springs to mind. ""One may smile, and smile, and be a villain."" [Hamlet.]

"What?"

"Never mind."

Under his threats, I force a grimace onto my face while inside I burn with a disgust stronger than the fire consuming the books.I clench my teeth to hold in every inch of my anger and my knuckles whiten as I grip the railings to hold me up. I flinch every time a book is thrown onto the fire, I want to scream as fiercely as if I were on the bonfire myself. Book after book is thrown on, the Atrium's mob is chanting itself into a frenzy, the flames blinding out all reason. We have plunged deep indeed.

"I don't see why you are overreacting like this," says the Head of a Department to my left. "They're just paper, really."

I turn and don't bother to bite back my retort. "And you're just an overgrown ape, really," I continue despite his offence. "The thing that makes you different from the other animals is the same thing that makes those books more than paper. Ideas, theories, ventures into the unknown, the beauty of building something new over the old. Today you trample on ideas, saying "they are nothing but paper," tomorrow you will be trampling on the bodies and gravestones of innocent people saying "they are just animals,really.""

I stay and I watch as the crumpling pages disintegrate into ash. By the time someone casually pours a glass of punch over the remains of intellect, almost everyone has gone, leaving a mess of smashed plates, overturned tables, food and drink splatters that the house elves clean up. I rub my arms to try and bring some warmth of feeling back to them. But the fire of hatred leaves a bitter chill and I am left without a windblock.

A drunken Snatcher slaps me over-heartily on the back and laughs at the aftermath of the burning.

"You know what? I been thinking-"

"For exactly two minutes before you rejoined the hysterical savages."

"Shut it, young'un. I been thinking- it's like a _metaphor_."

"Behold the mystical presence of the multisyllable word."

"You see, you young'un an' Potter an' Weasley an' all your lot, you're like the ashes. An' our lot-"

He jabs a finger at the Magic is Might statue. "We're them. We got the power and the money an' all that. Compared with us- you're nuffink. You ain't worth noticin'."

"Maybe," I reply slowly. "But ash can't do this."

"Do what?"

I punch him in the face.

* * *

_2nd October_

"Dung, you're wasting your time. the Snatchers took everything of value, there's nothing left to steal."

He looks at me oddly. "I don't always think about business, y'know."

"Then why are you here?"

"I found these." He draws from his bag a wooden box of knives- _my _knives. It's all I can do not to snatch them out of his hands straight away. He must have bought them off the Snatchers- or stolen them. The manner of retrieval is irrelevant: I want my property back.

"But I can't just _give _it to you Marion. Times are 'ard, on all of us."

"I just told you, the Snatchers took everything of value. Money included,"

"Then what do I get for 'em?"

"How does this sound, for a deal? You give me my knives, I don't curse you to Bayswater and back for your poor conduct in battle- and you know what I'm talking about. Weapons are valuable- so is redemption. Give them back."

Eventually impatience and mingled pity gives way and I send him out of the house with a fresh loaf of bread, a dozen apples and solid lumps of cheese. But I get my knives back; and before long I hope to get everything back- and more.

* * *

_25th October_

The drumming and splashes of the continual rainfall do nothing to quench the fire raging still in my head. Every time I close my eyes or even just forget the war for a moment it blazes back, each new grievance or injustice serving as dry tinder that makes it burn brighter.

For me now, Knockturn Alley is the safest place in London, if only because it is a devil with which I am well acquainted. Its business is growing, the numbers of the underworld swelling. The rest of the country's prospects are as grim and limp as my soaking clothes.

Like moths to a light, the vague glimpse of sunlight brings out whole groups of the Wandless from their dens. They grasp at it, the closest thing to gold left, with no money or wand. Some falter in their reach and die grasping at one last value.

It seems that the Death Eaters are only marginally kinder to the Wandless in death than in life. They kick them aside in the road and complain about the smell, yet leave them to rot.

I see one tall man bend over in the street and close the eyes of a dead Wandless man and cover him with a sheet. I am about to walk over to the stranger and commend him for his nobility when he straightens up and I recognise who he is: Kingsley Shacklebolt.

It is all I can do not to run up to him and embrace him and Thank Providence that he's still alive.

Careful not to appear as if I am following him, I walk behind him until I am close enough to tell him :"Kingsley, it's me."

He whirls around, wand pointed at my throat.

"How do I spread butter on my toast in the morning?"

I smile at the memory. "Well, first you take out your butter dish. You never buy the butter that comes in little tubs, you always buy the wrapped kind. Then you take your butter knife and glide it over the surface of the butter from end to end until you have a good coating of butter on the knife. You never lop off a corner or dig out a chunk, because that makes a mess and is difficult to spread. Then you bend back your piece of toast so that it is a flat surface and you slide the butter over the still warm toast so that is melts nice and evenly. Then you use your other knife to cut the toast into small squares and you carefully eat one square at a time. But if you think nobody's looking, you do what I do and cram it all into your mouth at once."

Satisified, he lowers his wand and I raise mine. "Why is it that, when you are especially pleased with me, you sometimes call me Poppy?"

He clears his throat. "Poppy is short for your chosen surname, Popyngcart. The poppy is a wild flower, vivid in colour but not beautiful. Its product, opium is a drug and a controversial subject that has even started wars. An overdose can kill you, or give relief from pain. To many, it is considered a weed or a pest. It is a flower of the battlefield, that blooms even when everything around it is destroyed and lives, even when surrounded by the dying."

Confident that we are who we say we are, we begin to walk out of the street to find somewhere more secluded, to talk.

"I had reason to be suspicious, Marion. That wand is not your own."

"Sadly, no. Snatchers took mine and snapped it, so I had to find another. What has been happening in the meantime with you, Kingsley?"

"Whatever you do, Marion don't say _you-know-who_'s name. Don't! They must have put a taboo on it, I said his name and ended up surrounded by Death Eaters. I only just got away, I don't know if they are still looking for me."

"Then why aren't you in disguise all the time?"

"The same reason you aren't. There are charms on almost every important magical building to reveal disguises. Wearing an unfamiliar face is even more dangerous than wearing a wanted one. Everybody expects the wanted to be in disguise, there is even talk of the Ministry introducing identification papers that must be shown for any magical trade or transaction, therefore preventing any Undesirables or Muggle Borns ever being able to buy magical goods that may make them a threat ever again. Now let's get someone safer, I stayed here longer than I intended to."

He offers me his arm and we disapparate to a field somewhere in the Cotswolds.

Now that there are less people around, I look Kingsley up and down. He's thinner than before and although he is ever calm, there are signs of worry in his face. I smile to see him. He is more regal in his patched and worn robes and without any signs of office than Fudge and Thicknesse combined ever were, in all their finery and their lengthy ridiculous titles. He has always had a sort of quiet authority, a natural dignity you would say. He doesn't need to roar to be a lion.

"I'm very glad to see you alive, Kinglsye."

And I you," he raises an eyebrow. "I read about your trial."

"Oh,the Daily Prophet just loves me right now."

"The Prophet was quick enough to denounce you power-hungry, vicious and insane. There is pinch of truth there, though it was all vastly blown out of Quibbler, however, was less imaginative with the imagery and stuck closer to the facts, even if it wasn't exactly sympathetic. It argued that due to your young age and the fact that prison was considered as a sentence, you should at least have had the offer of legal aid. You owe a lot to Xenophilius Lovegood."

"I have begun to pay him back for it. You think all those anonymous pro-Potter articles come from nowhere?"

"You wrote them? Interesting. But where on earth did you get all the information from?"

I don't need to answer that question. He's beginning to work it out himself.

"The night Scrimgeour died. You had a big red box in your hands. Those kinds of boxes contain confidential information, there's only one reason Scrimgeour would give you a box like that. But you didn't destroy it, did you?"

"Not all of it. In fact, almost all of it survived destruction. But I'd say less than half of it has been even mentioned in the pages of publication. The rest is saved, in case Lovegood flips out and does a U-turn and starts copying the Prophet. In which case I will have to find some other way to keep the public informed. I'll post leaflets if I have to. Look,I know it is illegal-"

"Leaking information warrants 7 years in Azkaban, Marion. I can't believe it. You've escaped a prison sentence by the skin of your teeth, only to just go back to activities that could easily and fairly land you back in the courts again."

"Keep your hair on, not even Xeno knows it's me. But I got myself out of the courts for a reason, another reason than self-preservation. I would be a poor journalist, I would be a disgrace to our language if I didn't tell the truth when it was called for. The Prophet has Rita Skeeter, The Quibbler has Lovegood and me. This battle we could win. And you can help me win it. Please Kingsley, help me. And I promise I will reward you, given time."

"Marion, I am not a hired opinion. My silence is not bought. I gain my rewards myself, from my endeavours alone. I am not going to help you because I like you, or because you are on my side and can help me. I will help you because you are another human being, who needs help."


	33. Letters from a Murderer

"We're going to have to find another means of getting our point across," I mention to Kingsley, leaning forward to pour him some more tea.

"oh yes?"

"There is only so long that Xenophilius can continue publishing the truth before some Ministry flunky gets him. We have to provide accurate and unbiased information around the clock. When publishing through Xeno no longer becomes viable, we have to find an alternative."

He puts the tips of his fingers together in thought, just the way that Albus used to.

"The only really public information service other than by published word is of course the radio."

"Radio." I whisper to myself. Of course. The more I think about it, the better it is. "You must speak on it Kingsley. This is vital- when all this is over, after we win, your voice will be famous! You'll be a hero and extremely useful!"

The last three words are entirely unintentional. Kingsley looks up, almost bemused.

"Extremely useful?"

"I mean... you'll be a boon to our side. You will be... an important part of... just plans."

He still doesn't look convinced of my honesty and I don't blame him.

"We need a name for this pirate radio station," I say, quick to change the subject. "It should definitely be more blatant in its support of Harry Potter, we need to up the game. Something something Potter."

"Potterwatch," he says after a minute's contemplation. "I think that would do nicely."

"It would. Like we're watching over Potter, as his guardian angels or something. Potterwatch. Very good then, Potterwatch it is. Now, we need to recruit people to help us run it. Order members preferably. We will need inventive minds to help us get on the radio wavelength."

"Fred and George Weasley," Kingsley says without hesitation.

"Good choice. I shall supply the information for your broadcasts and when the documents have run their course, I shall seek out news myself."

"You do realise how risky that is. The longer you are out in the open, the more likely it is that you will be found, tortured and killed."

I pause, teapot still in hand. "It is imperative that whatever the social situation, the news comes through. If we cannot tell the truth from a lie we are truly lost. If I die while out scouting for information, the loss is the information I have gathered that never was reported, not me."

"Shouldn't you prefer to tell you the news? You, who has so many opinions?"

"It is you they shall remember, Kingsley. Not me. I will stay the way I am, behind the stage, rolling the curtain and dancing to my own tune. I used to wish to be remembered, to be famous. But I have learned that it can often be far better to work unknown, to pull the strings of the stage myself. I will carry out my plans, you shall carry out yours. But the greatest glory is not boasted of, not blasted out with trumpets. The greatest glory is the kind that flames inside, that does not fade when the celebrations are over and the players are dead. The greatest glory goes unseen, but never dies."

* * *

_1st December_

I pace up and down the corridor, unable to occupy my mind with anything. Painting is fruitless, every brush stroke just feels empty, every line with a pencil simply morphs into a word.

I look back through old photographs, old diary entries, every memory I can. Their faces all come back; my mother, Albus, Scrimgeour, Moody, Cedric Diggory, Sirius, Tom, Joan, Jaina, Alysha, Branwell- even Broderick Bode makes an appearance. The path down Memory Lane is wraught with danger and fear. What did I do for them, really? Apart from stand back and watch them die?

The concept of Potterwatch does make me feel stronger somehow, like something is happening, going somewhere other than down. But for more, it doesn't feel enough. Certainly not enough to atone for all my mistakes. I am dogged by the urge, the inexplicable desire to help people. Maybe by helping people I can help myself.

Words. What Albus had faith in, always. Words would prevail with him, not wands. I've misused magic in my time and it has caused irreparable damage. But words will be my way to heal.

* * *

So I write. Not just in my diary, but whatever I can, whenever and however.

I start to receive letters, forwarded to me by Kingsley, from people all across the country. People who've lost relatives to the Death Eaters, people who are alone and just want someone to talk to, people living in fear or uncertainty. Pureblood, halfblood, squib or muggle born, I read them all. A morning's worth of letters, an afternoon scouting for news ready for the evening broadcasts. With a continual cycle of work the weeks blur into each other, drumming out the memories resurfacing like corks. Most nights I am too tired to dream. Work distracts from the yawning emptiness of having no money, no prospects. By burying myself in every useful occupation I can find, I forestall plans for the future. They can wait until the time is right.

Kingsley understands my letter writing. He knows I need a tangible way of helping people, not just distantly. He advertises my services as a "professional talker" and thanks to him my inbox steadily piles up.

I have yet to reward him for all he has done for me, but in time I will. I will give him the greatest reward I know.

* * *

_Christmas Day 1997_

Early in the morning, I switch on the light and bring out my photograph of Adelaide as a baby from under my pillow. In this light, I can't see the picture very clearly, but I don't have to. I carry the photograph near my heart everyday and bring it out whenever everything gets too much.

I roll over in my bed and cough over the side. Stupid cough, I've had it for a month now and it still won't go away. I drank almost an entire bottle of cough syrup yesterday and it did absolutely nothing.

It is around half past eleven when I have the vision. I was feeling a bit lightheaded and had made my way to the kitchen to fetch one of the mince pies Kingsley brought me when it comes.

It is the same one I had the night Adelaide was born. But just as it reaches its usual ending, it changes. The clouds recede, the blood fades into the river, the tears soak into the ground and spring new life in their wake. The chessboard shatters, black and white squares flying everywhere. And alone on the chessboard stands the last pawn, with the king lying at its feet. The last pawn, triumphant.

Neither can live while the other survives.

But who is the pawn and who the king?

This is the beginning of the end.

**OK, dull chapter, but it was needed. And... less than ten chpaters to the end! more like five. **


	34. Posterity's Plan

_6th January 1998_

Suddenly, I feel like a stranger inside of my own house, as I sit down beside Kingsley on the sofa. Today I will tell him. Today I will reward him and bring an end to this war.

I clear my throat, not quite sure how to begin.

"I have had another vision."

He turns slowly to me, thoughtfully anticipating what news I have.

"The end of the war is nigh."

I don't have to explain further. "You're not just telling me this, are you?" he says quietly.

"No."

He sighs, tired. "So what exactly do you have in mind?"

I hesitate, cautious of his reaction. "I'm going to make you Minister."

"Why do you intend to do this?"

"It will be far easier to finish off the Death Eaters and their cause forever if we can make certain that the Ministry is returned to a more tolerant state, with one of our side as its leader. You are the perfect candidate for the job."

"But I would have competition, Marion. You can guarantee me nothing."

"The only true obstacles in our path are Thicknesse and his deputy. Once they are out of the way, the road is clear, all other opposition being negligible: since you and I are the only ones expecting the coming events, we have time to prepare ourselves- an advantage unique to us."

"Once they are out of the way?"

"Naturally we cannot have you tarnishing your good name. I shall be the one to put Thicknesse and co. aside. Preferably in some sort of skirmish, where self defence and unfortunate circumstances can account for me. "

"This is a messy business indeed. It is not right to take power by murder."

"I will not talk. But you must listen to me Kingsley, even after you gain office. I have been known to be right in some things. I will help you gain power, that is your reward and well-earned. But you must not forget what I have told you."

"I do not think that power is right for you, Marion. By all means wait a few years and seek it yourself rather than through me."

I give a short laugh of disbelief. "Do you really think anybody would ever accept me as Minister? I'm the daughter of a Death Eater, Kingsley. It would just be seen as a return to the old ways. I cannot wait, not with everything is going on. I will act when the time is right, child or not. So must you."

* * *

I reach out and tentatively brush the cold stone as if it were a relic. On it is inscribed his epitaph:

HERE LIES DOBBY

A FREE ELF

"Dobby," I whisper to him, shaking my head. I can't let it go. I can't let him go. Every time I close my eyes his green eyes light up like light bulbs and he's there again, so cheerful and kind even after everything. Elf or not, I never had his strength. I had so much to tell him, so much to learn. Now I can never know.

It was a knife I'm told- thrown by Bellatrix Lestrange. I feel ashamed by the sight of them. It is not only the enemy who is hurt by what we do. When this war is over, I shall never touch them again, certainly not use them to fight. To do so would be to ignore Dobby, to shun his sacrifice.

I scoop up a handful of sand and slowly let it flow from my fingers, disappearing into masses on the ground. I collect some flowers for his grave and salute him, mournful that another friend has gone.

* * *

_1st May_

I am about to despair of the pace of things when a Patronus, a lynx, meanders its way into the kitchen. I put away the last of my dinner dishes quickly, keen not to miss a word of his message. From the lynx's air, this is news of the most important form.

"Urgent Help Required at Hogwarts School. Minerva McGonagall intends to defend Harry Potter and the castle from the Dark Lord. His forces will be expected to seige the castle, _everyone _will be present. Apparate to Hogsmeade and report to Aberforth at the Hog's Head."

I nod slowly, well aware of who he means by everyone. If I am to kill Thicknesse, now is the time to do it.

Someone else will be there too. Draco. After all my fruitless months scouting and searching for new of him, I can finally find him, unless it is too late. No, I mustn't think like that. It cannot be too late yet.

I scrape my hair back and grab my cloak, stopping in the hall only to reach for my knives. Kingsley hates them, but they will do the job.

Careful not to disturb the neighbours even now, I close the door and make my way briskly down the road. If indeed this is my last walk from home, then it must not be done in sadness. If I am truly marching to my death, I will march with my head up.

**Battle of Hogwarts next chapter!**


	35. One Last Joke

Hogsmeade has become a ghost town. Not in the sense of spectres or poltergeists, but under the glare of oppression the place has withered away, lesser than its shadow. _Look at me _the windows confide to the wind. _Look at what I am, what I once was or could have been. _It is so changed from what I thought I knew.

My first instinct upon arrival is to run and seek out Albus' grave, to see if it remains a solace or if it too has become another ominous milestone of the road ahead. Whether the book and the truth I left with him is the beating heart of his tomb or walled up screaming inside I do not know. For the time being, his grave and his peace lies just out of reach.

The Hogs' Head is bustling with people coming and going and I aim to slip by unnoticed by Aberforth's watchful gaze, but no such luck. Whatever my experience with slipping by, Aberforth is especially alert tonight and my stature makes me stand out among my taller and older counterparts.

"Marion!" There goes being unnoticed.

Reluctantly I make my way over to him by the bar.

"You off with your lot? Off to fight?"

"Yes."

He shakes his head. "It'll be a bloodbath out there, you mark my words." To contradict him would be foolish. I have seen the signs, they are all there.

"Ab, I know full well what I'm getting myself into."

"Then get out. Live longer, it's what you want."

"Look, the Death Eaters will hunt me down and kill me eventually. May as well be sooner rather than later. Better sooner, when there are others to help me and when victory is in sight."

"Victory." He snorts. "Still living under my brother's delusion, then?"

"Delusion today, reality tomorrow."

"You'll go the same way he did if you aren't careful. Head in the bloody clouds."

"Nobody likes it, but I need to be here. What I have to do is the matter, not how it is to be done or who is to do it."

"For the Greater Good?"

"No. For mine."

* * *

Regardless of his opinion on my judgement, Ab shows me the passage, the shadows washing over us like waves, that leads to the Room of Requirement and from there to the battle that is certain to ensue. I am hesitant in returning to the Room, due to the unfortunate circumstances that almost led to my death there last year and the daunting notion that such circumstances might be repeated again tonight. I have plenty enough to fear without old memories seeking me out.

The apprehension almost vanishes at the sight of the new and reformed Room. It has become a hub of hope, a spark among damp firewood. The sight of this other world, this bastion of resistance is an urge to fight like nothing else could be. I was a naive thing indeed if I thought that Hogwarts would ever be passive. The building itself fights back against them. Hogwarts will be Hogwarts.

The sound of Harry's voice brings me back to why I am here.

"Voldemort's on his way, they're barricading the school- Snape's run for it"

So Snape has been forced out of Hogwarts, before he can explain everything to Harry. He'd better have a bloody good plan to get back, or we are all doomed. If he never makes it, I might have to be the one to confess and the thought is abhorrent to me. To tell him everything, tell him I lied to him for years and why without immediate proof and face a prison sentence for my part in the conspiracy. I'm not brave enough for that, not yet.

I feel the crowd pressing against me as they make haste for the Great Hall, I follow, if only to avoid being crushed until another's voice pulls me back.

"I was a fool! I was an idiot, I was a pompous prat-"

Well if I'm not prepared to be honest, someone else certainly is. At last. Now you tell us Percy Weasley, at this most inconvinient of times! But I couldn't be gladder that he said it. Now I can see why he is a Gryffindor, why all of them are. At George's comment on how we must get there soon before all of the good Death Eaters are taken I instinctively feel myself drawn to his side. I could do with someone with a smile tonight. But I think Percy is the one I need to watch. Percy might just be my way to Thicknesse.

I manage to reach the Great Hall, pushing past people in time to hear McGonagall's orders. I am about to ask her what parts of the castle require reinforcements when I hear the sound of the fear in my heart, taking the form of his voice. I curl my fingers around my ears as if I would tear the sound out of them.

_"I know that you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood."_

_"Give me Harry Potter and none shall be harmed."_

He's only seventeen years old.

_"Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched."_

He is just a boy, whose only crime is being alive.

_"Give me Harry Potter and you will be rewarded."_

I want no reward that he can give me.

_"You have until midnight."_

When his voice fades into the walls, I breathe out slowly. I have a look at my watch. Midnight is half an hour away, the minute hand chasing the hour like a hunting dog tracking down a scent.

Kingsley divides up the troops and I volunteer to join his group in the grounds- the Forest will provide cover and I prefer long distance targets. But he shakes his head at me and whispers only one thing as I pass:

"Stairs."

Of course. Kingsley must venture out into the grounds to capture Thicknesse or his deputy and bring them to me, and should they evade him I must wait for them to walk right into my path. Should I be forced to choose between taking on Thicknesse or his deputy, I must go for the deputy; if the Death Eaters were to regroup they would notice Thicknesse's absence and replace him, but the demise of his deputy may go unnoticed.

The staircase where I am stationed lies in a secluded part of the castle and seems at first to be an odd choice of post. But Kingsley has thought his strategy through well. It is the ideal spot to keep valuable fighters like Thicknesse for respite or protection. It is also secluded enough for it to seem useless to defend: just a few solitary classrooms, empty and entirely expendable.

I am the sole occupant of the place, for now. I treat the stairs with caution, unwilling to repeat another debacle that almost ended in death. The sight of them brings Draco to mind and his lasting words:

_"And you think you are better? Or exempt from scrutiny? You are equally guilty! And don't think I don't understand everything._

_You live in perpetual fear half your life, with only brief snatches of anything resembling structure... paranoid with fear of the colossus in your life- your father. He frightens you in every way, and he fascinates you with the power he wields. You are stifled and suffocated... "Moral instincts" have nothing to do with it..._

_You think, naively, that you can just "forget" and get along fine. But you can't, you never could. You are stalked by thoughts and nightmares and you remember the frustration and the fear and the oppression and you hate it. It wells up in you, this- this tide of hysteria. You present a mask of all bubbles and smiles to your friends, but inside you are bitterness and resentment. And you are still determined to forget, to bury everything in the sands of time... And then, when school is over and more horrors are in store, you bury yourself in every hobby under the sun, keeping up old interests as well as beginning fresh ones, all to sustain focus on something else, something that won't stalk and kill you, something to cling to and hold on to. To feel special. You become obsessed with political power, with everything it represents: the greed and corruption of our world. You want to be the one with all the power, so that you will never be oppressed again, so that you will change things, feel worthy and wanted. You also want revenge but you don't know how._

_And every time you watch fathers and their children in the playground, and you wonder- are you defective? What's wrong with you? Why are you so different? The black sheep, the one didn't work out. Why is everybody else happy and you are not? And you see that playfulness and that carefree innocence which you know you will never, ever have-"_

Where is he? Will I ever find him again? Or will I be too late and see only a reflection of myself?

Then I want nothing more than to have my sister with me. It is the weight of her arms I want around me, not my own. The brush of her hair over my shoulder, not the settling dust of an unfamiliar place. The flutter of her heartbeat through my back, not the fear coursing through me. The answer to her mournful question:

_"Oh, my poor sister. My lemon and ice cream sister. What am I to do with her?"_

What indeed.

I hunch up as small as possible behind the stone wall that connects the stairs at the side with the landing, and wait for midnight.

* * *

My nails cut grooves in my palms with each new scream, my knuckles grazing my teeth. Where I am, I cannot see the chaos , but nothing can prevent my hearing it. Several times in the last few minutes I have risen and tried to join them, but every time the tether of duty has pulled me back. Kingsley has put me here, I must remain here until I have finished my task, or finished off my task. Here the battle seems distant, miles away, when nothing could be further from the truth. In a short time, it will be a battlefield by itself.

Underneath the roar of battle comes the shuffling sounds of footsteps; and everything dies away.

I quickly glance around to see the face of one I know only by sight: the deputy Minister for Magic. For an important member of the Ministry, his lack of protection is astonishing- he is completely and utterly alone. Perhaps he sought out this place to hide. Whatever his reason for being here, he is my prey now. Identity is irrelevant. Personality is irrelevant. Family is irrelevant. He has done nothing against me personally, we have never spoken. He has not turned on me, he does not even know I am here. In all sense of reason, I have no cause to kill him, yet I must do so anyway. He has the misfortune of being on the wrong side of the fence; and that is a difficult thing to forgive.

I force myself to be steady as I slowly raise my wand behind the staircase and through a gap in the banisters, take aim. Two words. Two small words with meaning behind them. That is all it will take. That's all I have to do. I open my mouth to whisper those words.

Arms close around my neck, trapping my head as if they would rip every thought out of it. I gasp out the last of my air, the force knocking the wand out of my hand. I watch it fly over the staircase and land the opposite side of the room, minutes out of reach.

The arms squeeze tighter in the only embrace my father could give me. I flap like a dying fish, lights popping, oblivion almost seizing me before my fingers grasp at my chance of escape.

To each villain his own vice and my father's is a total lack of efficiency in killing. If there is just one thing that Voldemort and I have in common, it is the earnest wish to dispose of our respective enemies as quickly as possible. But my father cannot do this. He must enjoy it, revel in the total control over the victim, watch their hope fade out of their eyes and without their life. He cannot just get it over with.

The cork almost gets stuck but finally I yank it out, cracking too-long nails but fear blurs out the pain. A cloud of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder obscures the pair of us from view. My father shouts in shock and I use his surprise to crack the pot against his nose and after wriggling free of his snatching arms, hurtle down the stairs after my wand, while he flails around in the dark, unable to see his way out.

Taking to the stairs is a decision I almost have no chance to regret. I duck away from a curse the deputy sent towards my head, but his second curse is aimed cannily.

I slip on the crunching steps and scream what I think will be my last as the entire staircase collapses on top of me, showering me with rubble.

For one terrible moment, I thought everything was gone. But it will not be gone until I let go of it.

"Where is she?" cried the deputy. "I think we killed her. Let's move on, see if our trap works again."

"No!" My father kicks the wall with a thud. "I'm not finished until her head is on my desk!"

"If you want to check she's dead you'll waste time. That black cloud she made isn't going anywhere fast, we'll have to wait it out if you want her."

I choked out the dust, spitting out the chalky taste and trying to ignore the numerous wounds pounding all over me.

Aware of a dwindling supply of breathable air, I crawl out of the debris very slowly, each new spot of light, however faint, luring me on. I like the look of the light, the way it reveals the unknown. Inching along my throbbing fingers, I pull myself gradually out of the wreckage.

The moment my legs are free I scuttle around the nearest wall, curses whizzing past.

Trying to hold onto reason with imminent peril and head wounds is like clutching at a glass vase on a sea-tossed ship. Something has to give.

I can hear the sound of running, chasing my decision. I have no wand, I am wounded and I have never been more vulnerable. But something drives me not to go back, to grab Fate's reins and shake her off. This is my chance. I shall not fail it.

I grab the largest piece of rubble I can find: part of a step- about the size of a book. My wrists scream as I pick it up but I grip it tightly even as the blood on my heads runs over its rough surface.

Then I run. Not away from the danger, but head first into it. Curses blaze around me but I cannot stop. I run and with each dusty step make it closer and closer to the deputy, forced into a corner.

Wrenching my shoulder, I swung the rock and clubbed his hand with it forcing him to release his wand. He dives down in a desperate attempt to pick it up.

All I have to do is let go.

Like the shattering of an egg shell, his skull cracks and blood pools out, running up to lick the toes of my shoes, as if to wash off one horror only to replace it with another.

I take a step back, looking over my kill, my brutal, bloody kill in a manner not dissimilar to observing a just-finished painting. Just part of life's rich artwork, but hidden away at the back of the gallery, not for public viewing. To be destroyed and forgotten and buried if it didn't tell such a truth.

Whatever drove me to kill him was the same thing that drove me to run straight into curse fire with only a rock for protection. It was a different thing to what drove me to join the war, to risk my life for Harry and Albus' cause. I did not kill if him for a better world, not really. I made the first move, really. It was not self-defence, really. It was power, really.

Because he had power. He had power and I wanted it. I wanted it, really.

* * *

Out of the corner of my eye, the cloud began to fade and my father's bulky form became clearer. I snatched up my wand and jogged from the scene, not daring to look back at the crumpled body of power. I did not kill him with a wand, nobody need know it was me. They can just go on without knowing of the dangerous hunger, the monster tucked away neatly in me.

I run through the corridors, turning to register the shouts and spells richocheting around the walls. What to do? Where to start? If I am to kill Thicknesse, it must be done quickly, preferably before anyone can realise that his deputy is also dead.

I race up the stairs. Where did the twins say they would be? Percy might be nearby. He knows Thicknesse better than anyone.

He is duelling a Death Eater and they are equally matched in prowess until I send a knife flying into the back of his opponent. He starts, his glasses slipping on his face.

"Marion! There you are," he winces at the sight of the knife. "Was that really necessary?"

"Afraid so." I pull him to the side by his robes, staggering slightly. "Is Thicknesse anywhere near here? Do you have any idea where he would go?"

"I haven't seen him. Not sure if he has turned up at this part of the castle yet. Why?"

"I owe him a good hex."

He nods, his glasses slipping further. "I second that motion. Percy Ignatius Weasley, at your service."

He makes a pompous little bow, so incongruous with the violence around us. I curtsey in return. "Marion Ruth Popyngcart, at yours."

He grabs me by the back of my robes, pulling me out of the way of a flying curse that collides with the wall behind.

"Watch out for curses."

"Brilliant advice, Perce."

So there, in the thick of a war, I decide to give Percy another chance. Apart from my antipathy of the Ministry in general, maybe he and I are not so different after all. The more I think about it, the more I can understand his ambition, even if his way of achieving it is entirely different to mine.

Killing Thicknesse will be difficult, with Percy and the twins present. Perhaps if I make it look like an accident- a wayward explosin perhaps.

The battle rages on. I can no longer identify the owner of the blood that coats my face, my hands and clothes. Faces come and go, I can no longer tell who they are, they are just pools and fountains of blood, more blood.

Two more hooded Death Eaters join the fray. Like the wrappings of a gift loosening off, the hood falls off of one.

"Hello, Minister!" Percy sends a jinx straight at him and he recoils in discomfort. "Did I mention I'm resigning?"

That is it. Cut everything I have ever said about Percy. This battle has officially made him my favourite person in the Ministry. Thicknesse is now just where I want him: wounded and in the corner. All I have to do is go overboard with a Stunning Spell and he is finished.

"You actually are joking, Perce- I don't think I've heard you joke since you were-"

I throw my head back to laugh, but it is choked off as the corridor explodes and I am forced backwards. I am slightly to the side of the blast, but it knocks me clean- no, not clean, nothing here is clean- off my feet. Unlike the staircase skirmish, I receive the lesser part of the debris and it does nothing apart from heighten the pain of my injuries.

"F-Fred?" I slowly get up, not bothering to brush the dust off, I would be there for hours. No, it is Fred I need. I want him to finish his joke, to tell me that clearly _some_ obnoxious Death Eaters obviously do not possess his sense of humour, but exploding corridors is definitely an overreaction. I want him to tell me he won't let an explosion get him down. I want him to get up and shake the dust out of his brilliant red hair. I want him to stay with me. He has to stay with me. He can't leave. He wouldn't leave, not now. He won't leave, I know.

"Fred? What did you want to say?"

There is no answer.

"Fred, speak to me. You're OK, aren't you Fred? You'll keep fighting with us, won't you Fred? Please, Fred, speak to me. You're OK, you have to be OK, see, you're smiling. Tell me you're OK, Fred! Fred? _Fred?_"

I can scream his name as much as I can, I can scream until I choke but he still won't answer me. His face is frozen in a grin and none of my anger can melt it. Fred. Thicknesse turns and flees out of the corridor, clutching himself in pain but I do not even flinch. Nothing it seems, can move me from here.

Silence is the punchline to the last joke of all; and at its cue I know I shall never laugh again.

* * *

The Unforgivable Curses have never come easier. I know there will be a moment of sanity after this is over, that will make me scream with guilt and hate my actions, but for now the bloodbath is in full swing. I don't even question what I am doing. Why shoudl they live? Why should any of them live, when Fred is gone and I know I shall never laugh again?

I finally get my head back on track when I become acutely aware of running out of time.

_"You have fought valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery. Yet you have sustained heavy losses. If you continue to resist me, you will all die, one by one. I do not wish this to happen. Every drop of magical blood spilled is a loss and a waste. Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat, immediately."_

The rest of his speech is lost to me, I know of only one thing. A retreat means only one thing: Thicknesse will be unleashed from my tenuous grasp and I may never have the chance to kill him again.

It will mean dishonour on the highest level, but I have to take this chance. It will mean breaking the laws of magical warfare, but this oppurtunity cannot be squandered. I have to get him as quickly as I can, it is all that I, in my shattered and bludgeoned state, can do.

I have to do it; and I have to do it now.

* * *

**OK, one more chapter than expected. But I think this is enough action for one chapter and I will continue the battle next chapter!**

**PS. 2nd May this year is the 15th anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts!**


	36. Last Pawn Standing

As quickly as I can without looking conspicuous, I hurry for the doors. I don't have much time if I am to reach the Death Eaters before they make it out of the castle.

This must be done carefully. To attack retreating Death Eaters risks Voldemort's anger at the breach of promise, potentially disastrous for Hogwarts and all who defend it. The defenders need this hour, we are all falling apart at the seams fighters and building alike. The castle cannot withstand another attack yet.

But I will not let the oppurtunity pass me by. With any luck, Draco might be with them.

Trying not to think too much about how this could all go disastrously wrong, not assisted by the thoughts of all my previous plans that ended unsuccessfully, I manoeuvre a path through the rubble, whilst also attempting to ignore the long cracks and splashes spattered along wall, floor and remains of both.

I manage to catch up with them as they make their way out of the front doors, simmering with angry confidence at what they perceive as a tactical move that can only lead them to victory.

Like little black clouds, they stride into the Forbidden Forest in small groups, robes swishing on the breeze. Thicknesse is in one of those groups.

I shift slightly, almost unsure of how to begin. I contemplate putting him under the Imperius Curse to lead him away, but I am interrupted by the frustrating fact that he is already under the Imperius Curse- of another. To break the curse and to lead him away would be far too suspicious.

But I will need to get him away from his group; and they are getting closer to the Forest. The further away this takes place from Voldemort, the better.

"What's that light over there?"

"Probably just a Patronus. All these Dementors around gives me the chills."

"I don't trust 'em. I say we treat it as a threat. I say we think them out."

"If you say so."

A small gaggle of Death Eaters make their way over to me, staring in the dark.

I freeze a moment, before doubling back and running, running flat out across the grounds, thanking whoever had the idea that this area should be grass as it cushions the sound of my approach.

Thicknesse is surrounded by just two others as I reach him. In the dark, a curse would be ridiculously foolish- the light would reveal my presence and location immediately. But a knife might be missed, in time for it to hit its mark.

I draw a blade from my coat, covering it with my sleeve to try and hide its glisten. I shouldn't miss at this kind of distance. I couldn't miss.

I stay very still, so that no sound comes from me but the whoosh of the knife. I turn slightly to throw, but when I do I catch someone's eye.

They open their mouth to exclaim their surprise and at that sudden moment I know I cannot do it. My resolve is there, the motivation and oppurtunity- but I have been spotted. To take my shot would be to risk my life with the odd chance that I might be successful and kill him with it. Nobody must know I was here, it risks too much.

No, I shall have to retreat and abandon that path. It is a split second decision as I have minimal time to get out before they raise the alarm. I jerk my hood over my head, enshrouding me in black and run straight back to the castle and out of the grounds.

As I get further and further away from them all, I feel the frustration and the despair coiling in me, colder and sharper than the knife still in my hand. I fling it down before throwing myself onto the grass, head in hands. My hands curl into claws around pieces of grass, I rip and tear at them, pummelling the ground but nothing can stop everything that is tearing me apart from the inside. All of them. Everyone who has died because of my failures, who will surely die because I have failed to kill Thicknesse.

* * *

Much of the castle is deserted, everybody is in the Great Hall- living or dead. I head on up the stairs, my knees bending shakily with the effort of each step.

I stop at the bathroom door and nudge it open with my foot, knocking it effortlessly off the wall, damaged and splintered with curses.

Whatever damage the school has suffered, the waterworks are still running and steadily I scratch the dust and blood off my skin, watching drowsily as the dirt and skin and pain is whisked down the drain. The raw skin is tinged pink, like what Adelaide looked like as a baby.

It takes me a minute or two before I can bring myself to look in the mirror.

I would not have thought I was a child.

I would not have thought I was alive at all.

The fire and brimstone of battle reflects dimly off my eyes. A long graze runs a path along the left side of my face. The rest is bruised, bloody and almost unfamiliar to me. It as if the Death Eaters had taken a disliking to my face and put a hammer and chisel to it. My hair has fuzzed into one big dusty knot that would be a battle in itself to comb. It is a trivial thought- I almost wonder how I could have had it, but I wonder if I'll ever live to have a clean face again.

As I lie back against the wall in a corner of the Great Hall in order to try and steal forty winks, I wonder if I will ever know a soft fresh bed again. Then I glance briefly over at the rows and rows of the dead and I wonder if I shall ever have peace again.

* * *

I've barely closed my eyes before I am shaken awake again. Now there can be no requesting more time, no putting off until later what can only happen now. Now is the time to get up, brush off the settling dust of omnipresent rubble and return to the war that merely waited while we slept, waiting for us to wake up to despair.

As meek and grudgingly obedient as cattle, we all mill around the front doors. No warning can prepare us for it. We learn of it only when we hear it spoken.

Harry Potter is dead.

I close my eyes with the pain of it, my head ringing, each word ringing, each word a hammer to a nail of my coffin. The beckoning of the hammers of my own demise drown out the sound of everything. I am too entranced by the hammering that has blasted apart the drum roll that sent me into battle to react to anything around me, or even be indignant of the lie Voldemort creates around Harry's murder.

_"Anyone who continues to resist, man woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family."_

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang bang the hammers go. The reason I fight has now become the reason I am forced to surrender. I cannot let Adelaide toddle her way to an early grave. To do so would be to brand my whole life a conclusion of failure.

But I cannot be submissive; and if I do not die free I certainly do not die content.

I can trust no forgiveness they offer me- why should they forgive? I have done nothing but snub them and do everything in my power to make myself a nuisance to them. There is no room in their new world for me.

How will they kill me, I wonder? Will they do it quickly? Line us up in a queue for slaughter and perform the Killing Curse on us one by one, marked for death next to a pile of bodies? Will they kick my corpse around like a rag doll? Or will they hack off my head with a meat cleaver while I scream and stick it up on a plaque next to house elf heads, as another slave who outlived their benefit?

At the arrival of the Death Eaters, I jump up and down impatiently as I am stuck behind a very tall person, as luck would have it. I can't see what's going on for the life of me. I come up with the wildly rash idea of Stunning the person in front to get a better view and quickly dispel it as attacking my fellow defenders at this time can hardly be called productive.

But as I bounce up again, I catch a rising glimpse of him lying dead and the terrible sight almost sends me crashing to my knees when I land.

The pain which I was silent of is now shouted around me and as soon as I hear it I am happy to add my voice to the cry.

The silencing charms Voldemort places upon us all do not hold, to my curious surprise. Why isn't it working? Why is there still hope, in that? If Voldemort himself cannot even keep us quiet, who is to say that his other spells on us will last?

I watch as the Sorting Hat, our symbol of varied unity blazes alight, a flaming crown for Neville.

But the hat has barely kindled when the flash sparks descent into chaos.

My eyes cannot move quickly enough to take in all that happens. The numbers seem to double every time I blink. Giants, centaurs, elves. The very greatest and the most humble all side by side. I wouldn't be surprised if woodlice carrying splinter spears made an appearance in this catalogue of mayhem.

Even after all he has suffered, Percy has not forgotten his promise to me and I watch as he and Arthur floor Thicknesse, giving a nod of approval.

I'll deal with him later.

At Bellatrix's maniacal cackles I run to attack her until-

"NOT MY DAUGHTER YOU BITCH!"

Tells me that I'm not really needed in that department.

I turn to find Kingsley but he's fighting Voldemort himself and I am not the only one watching his back.

Furious at Bellatrix's death, Voldemort blasts his three opponents backwards and I am so preoccupied with cushioning my master- no, my ally's fall, I completely miss what happens next.

"HE'S ALIVE!"

"Of course he's alive!" I am affronted. "What makes you think my charms are anything less than adequate?!"

"No, not Kingsley, HARRY!"

I don't need to ask who she is talking about.

If Harry stands, we stand. If Harry lives, we live; and if Harry wins the debts of death can at last be paid and the shackles of regret can rust in loss.

My part is played out. I stand back, just another member of the crowd. I learn the truth as Harry tells it (wouldn't want Harry to defeat Voldemort without explaining it all first) just like everybody else; but I learn it differently. The motivations, emotions, pain and suffering and sacrifice behind the words.

For me, it was more than just a story. It was the reshaping of everything I knew. The reshaping of everything I would later know. I watch the end of what Dumbledore began, I watch the beginning of everything that Voldemort tried to end.

I stand back and let the future defeat what was past.

* * *

The heady thrill of victory is something exhilarating and relieving, but it does not halt the frown that comes with the absence of the one I wish to punish.

I refer neither to the man bleeding unconscious on the floor or his pink hag of an accomplice.

The sun is glinting over the trees as I leave the castle and spot my father running across the grounds. He has no hope of truly escaping, with a burn where his wand should be. But he will make a run for it anyway.

Maybe he too cannot bear the idea of being trapped again.

I race after him. I cannot kill him of course, but I will make him accountable for all he has done. He murdered my mother, he murdered my sister and he tried to murder me, in more ways than one. I cannot deny him life, but I can deny him mine.

Branches brush my face but I push them aside, forcing my way closer. The hems of my clothes are sodden with the dew and there is nothing more I want to do than have a cup of tea, put my feet up and have the rest of the day asleep, but I am not finished yet.

Like a sheepdog, I run round to him, herding him towards the lake. He wades straight through it, great splashes of water whooshing around him as he plunges deeper into the lake.

I reach for the brooch inside my coat.

He shouts and collapses in the water, drenching himself completely, as two merpeople take hold of his arms and roll him, helpless as a log, to land.

"Not wanting to rub it in." (I'm not sure I really mean that.) "But you and your master have just been defeated and your youngest daughter may have had a slightly-more-than-minor role in it."

He scowls, gritting his teeth, defeat souring his temper. It is the closest thing to a surrender that I shall be able to get out of him.

I take him back to the castle and we have perhaps the longest conversation we have ever had without shouting- although it mainly consists of me doing the talking. I make a point of musing over what I shall do with all the years of my life to come- the average life expectancy for a wizard has just reached 137 and 3/4, so there is much to discuss on the subject. He punctuates every reference to longevity with a rasping, rattling cough, an exaggerated mimic of my own. It infuriates me, it is hard to gloat when I have not won completely, when he in turn can have something to boast of.

I leave him with the other captive Death Eaters awaiting the full force of the law, for I have just one task left. One more kill, that is all I have to do and then I shall be free at last.

* * *

Thicknesse is a desolate part of the Hospital Wing, hidden from view. Tweaking the hem of a spare starched apron I pilfered to give the appearance I am here to heal, not harm, I slip behind the curtain and observe my last victim.

He is barely conscious, unable to do more than feebly stir at my presence. A wayward curse has shattered his left arm and faint puffs of black smoke are expelled through the bandages when he tries to move. It will need serious attention at St Mungo's; where he will shortly be going if I am not quick.

The bandages extend from his wrist to above his elbow and clay runes poke out from between the layers, used to contain the curse to his arm- should it spread, he will most surely die.

That is where I come in.

I grip the tweezers, praying that I won't drop them and make a noise. Tentatively and then with more confidence, I loosen the bandages and begin to pull each rune out. More and more of the wound is exposed and my stomach churns at the sight of it: blackened and oozing. Thicknesse whimpers in pain but I must ignore him. It is hard, harder than killing his deputy. This is slow, deliberate and inexcusable. I cannot deny what I am doing.

A hand closes around my wrist, stopping me from removing the last layer of runes. It is Neville.

"Don't do it."

I open my mouth to say something back, but words fail me.

"The war's over," he says simply. "Why d'you need to kill him? Besides, I bet he was Imperiused. He resisted from what I've heard, fought Yaxley all the way. He didn't know what he was doing. It's too easy to put the blame on him. Just let it go."

"You mean forgive him?"

"Maybe. But what's done is done, so no more killing. Let it go, Marion. Free him, free yourself. Otherwise it'll be like- I don't know- like you've flown out of one cage and into another. That's not what you'd want. Let's patch him up and let's leave it."

Obediently, I wind the bandages back around his arm, careful to replace everything exactly as it was. Leaving the hospital wing with the conspicuous lack of blood on my hands feels odd. Liberated, almost. No more killing, at all. Maybe at last this can all be over.

The afternoon is beautiful in summer glory, but the joy behind it has a greater beauty still. I can't See my future yet- but now I find I don't even really want to. The day's unbelievable events have instilled something new in me, in all of us here. My future belongs to me, in all its uncertainty and promise and hope. My future belongs to me. It always did.

Whether this extraordinary feeling lasts for one day or twenty, one year or twenty, I do not know. But for however long it lasts, I can enjoy it. The feeling that I can be glad and proud to be me and who I am; and I couldn't want to be anyone else.

**Three more chapters! Ahhh we're nearly at the end!**


	37. The Long Spoon

It has been done. Kingsley is now Minister for Magic, just as I had planned. Slughorn was of invaluable help and combined with neglible opposition (mainly consisting of those who thought they could do a better job themselves- hardly credible) his rise to power is startlingly swift. Few wizards I know would be able to cope with such a great change in their fortunes so quickly, but Kingsley is exceptional.

Also he was somewhat expecting it.

Neville forgives me of my attempted murder and he says nothing of it. Conviniently enough, nobody suspects anything about his deputy's bloody demise, which is filed under the generic title of simply: "bad luck on the battlefield".

I return home on the third day of May and remain at home for the rest of the week. Several times I attempt to leave the house, but even simply touching the handle of the front door reminds me of the last time I left the house. It feels like a very long time, even if it is only a few days, until I can pluck up the courage to leave Kent and return to London.

There is work to do.

* * *

Kingsley tactfully brushes over my absence and puts me to work- though my load is significantly lighter than what his predecessors heaped on me. My wages are even smaller but that is only fair. The Ministry's treasury is run dry, ransacked by Thicknesse's cronies and he has already made a point of paying me every Knut of my due in overtime. He has never liked debts and is determined that in time, the Ministry will be subject to the public and not goblin creditors.

He sees no shame in requesting for my opinion or even asking for my advice- though he listens to everyone with equal measure. He does not shoo me out of the room with the patronising words "Run along little girl while we grown-ups talk shop." I attend his meetings- though I discreetly slip out the back entrance should he be entertaining representatives of the vampire community, who as a whole have never liked me. Even the vampires who fought alongside the Battle of Hogwarts with me wholeheartedly despise me, so my absence is tactful, Kingsley being ever the diplomat.

To my surprise, I find myself growing quicker to obey him. But my respect for him grows the more I see how able he is in the role which I have chosen him for. He puts on no airs or graces- he needs none of them. He is not here to flaunt power or wealth. He never deems to put himself on a pedestal, on display to the world. Nor is he one who speaks great speeches that are mainly poetic waffle. He is not one to proclaim himself a shining beacon for our age only to prove himself as a feeble lightbulb. He is not here to do nothing and make it look like he is doing something. He is here to work; and that is that.

True, he is still too much bound in red tape, there is still too much longwinded procedure and paperwork and bureaucracy in the Ministry for me to be completely satisfied, but I quibble. His thoroughness is commendable- nobody dares accept a bribe under his watchful gaze. The Ministry might never be a truly Utopian organisation, but I hope that perhaps at last it could call itself a noble one.

Hogwarts does not require much change. For Headmistress, the first choice of Kingsley and I (and I do not doubt anyone else) is of course Minerva McGonagall. As she has defended a castle under siege, turned the course of a war and duelled Voldemort himself, I doubt her students will give her much trouble from now on.

But at the Ministry, everything is turned upside down and put back into shape. There is a massive reshuffle in the offices. All those who have done poorly or worse, known to be corrupt have all been laid off unapologetically, pureblood and halfblood alike.

Those who have been given a second chance work furiously to prove themselves- they have competition now. Werewolves, muggle-borns, all the traditional outcasts pile into the Atrium every morning, dressed in Sunday best and clutching resumes, awaiting interviews for careers they had never dreamed of. A day does not go by at the Ministry when I do not see at least one new face.

I also pass queues in the opposite direction. Child worker after child worker queues for outgoing fireplaces, waving sacks of compensation Galleons in their hands with joyous cries of: "Off to buy school books!"

Children in employment is not yet illegal in the wizarding world, as most have been ignorant to its existence, but Kingsley has denounced it as "an inefficient and illogical system" which has been reason enough for him to let them all go. But making it fully illegal is still a long way off, so for now I am still in employment.

However, I do have the satisfaction of watching the Magic is Might statue being blasted to smithereens and its powder swept up and Vanished. Good riddance too.

It is yet undecided as to the monument that will replace it, though I do not think my proposal (a big statue of Harry) will be accepted, since the Boy Who Lived is far too modest for his own good. I am determined though, that we should not have a Ministry that does not have his involvement, however minor. Kingsley agrees, somewhat. Harry should not be a puppet but a partner, almost a patron. He of all people knows how important it is that we do a good job; and not simply that we say we do.

Permanent reform requires not just a change in law, but a change in attitude. That will take time and I do not wish yet to make truly definite legal change without Hermione Granger's input. But the change that has been made is a sign. It is the first step to our future which I welcome with open arms.

* * *

_29th May _

The summer sun glints like honey on the river and its familiar rushing sound prompts further what I have to do, what I swore I would do, on Dobby's soul and in his memory. I uncover the tea tray that I carry, the silver blades of my knives winking up at me. Lying there so innocently in the sun, gracefully smooth, they seem so pure, laid out in a line like surgical instruments.

The tray rattles as I edge closer to the water. The blades shake as if in fear of what I am about to do. But they shall fear, not I. Never more will fear dictate my life.

With a heave that sends sighs through the reeds, I flick the tray upwards. For a moment they hang in the air, like a flock of silver birds, before diving down into the depths of the river, scattering the light before being consumed by the eternal tide.

They are gone, my knives. I cannot even see them on the river bed. They can lie there, unknown to all but the weeds, buried in the past under all the new life around them.

* * *

_Rowle Manor_

Of all the ways I imagined myself returning to this place, I did not think of this. Yet here I am. My father has been walled up in Azkaban and since he is not expected to ever leave, everything passes to his next blood relative.

That is to say, me. Which is why I now stand in the long gallery of the palace I own which was once my prison. It is just as I left it eight long years ago, everything is just the way I remembered it to be. It is I who is the stranger here. I have come a long way since the days of tears and whimpers and fits. I walk the boards of my property, when I look out of the windows it is my own grounds which I survey. Yet I have no use for this house. I certainly do not wish to live here, not with all it means to me.

But it is a shame to see such a fine house go to waste (for I could speak of it as a fine house once the small matter of its previous inhabitats has been ignored) so I have no intention of destroying it. But if it is to survive, it must evolve.

The scratches of frenzy are filled in and polished over. The mildewed linen is washed, ironed and stored. The Dark objects packed off to the Ministry. There are still screams and wails in the house, but not of its tormented inhabitants: no, it is the paintings of my ancestors who cause the caterwauling as they watch me, deaf to their pleas, breaking up the heavy, old furniture that bore carved monstrosities of a similar canker to the Magic is Might statue and converting the wood into coffins. Coffins for house elves, whose heads are removed from their plaques on the wall (my first act in the house) reattached to their relevant corpses (easier said than done- requiring trawling around in the grounds searching for unmarked graves and then a morbid game of Snap) and buried with proper ceremony in marked graves in a garden designed for the purpose.

Like any artist, I leave my own signature on my work. I carve poetic couplets on window panes, paint ceilings and bully the incensed portraits of my family into submission. They can protest all they like, but they can do nothing to stop me. That said, _La Duchesse de la Bourgeoise _looks very pleased to be rehoused in similarly aristocratic surroundings.

Nobody will ever buy this house when it still bears the taint of the Rowle name, so I spend an afternoon's worth heaving around heavy books searching for a new name with which to re-christen it. Not a Welsh name, as we are in north Yorkshire, but one that still bears significance with me. Eventually I decide on Verum Memoriam.

The memory of truth.

* * *

No sooner have I buried my past, it seems that the future heads that way too.

I pour myself a cup of tea, steam dancing up into the breeze from the kitchen window. A steady drumming begins at the back of my head, reeling it around like a struggling fish. I tense, expecting a vision.

But none comes. My chest tightens and I grip the sink. Something wells up in the back of my throat and I cough. Long, choking, panting coughs that seem to drain everything out of me.

Blood spatters the sink.

I stare at the spray, trying to find words to describe it. But no words spring to mind. Apprehensively I reach out and touch it, almost as if I cannot believe it is real. But it is very real, clinging to my fingertips. Quickly I turn on the tap and watch as it is slowly pulled off the basin and down the drain, smears of it refusing to fade until I scratch at the enamel with my nails and scrub away the stains.

It is gone. But I know it will come back.

* * *

I put the moment from my mind and drown out the fears and imaginings with my work.

Kingsley summons me to his office in private and from his tone it can only be about Umbridge. To most of the people I know, she is no longer viewed as a threat since she was arrested. But she is as slippery as the toad she resembles and there is no way that she hasn't tried to worm her way out of this. She knows she can't worm her way back into the winning side, so she must retaliate.

He hands me a copy of a letter sent from her.

"We shot down her owl somewhere over Hyde Park- it had been identified as the property of one of Voldemort's supporters. Goodness knows how she managed to sneak it out without us noticing immediately."

I only catch a few sentences of the letter before anger crushes it, ripping it into pieces. She has called for Kingsley's removal from office for reasons which make my hands ball aggressively into fists. She has called for the reinstatement of her power on grounds of "unfair dismissal." She has implied in all subtle ways of how much she wants me dead.

She wants to make inquiries into the death of Thicknesse's deputy, insisting that he take Kingsley's place.

"I will bring her down" I swear to Kingsley. "I cannot let her pass into Azkaban until I am finished with her. I will break her and I will never forgive her, ever. All others but her. I will break her and I will watch her burn."

"Marion, what you suggest is dangerous. You say you will destroy her but you could just as easily destroy yourself."

It is too late. I already have.

"Prepare a feast. Tomorrow, I shall dine with her."

Kingsley is taken aback by my request, but does not object.

"If you dine with the devil, bring a long spoon," he says thoughtfully. "The question is not whether a long spoon is required, but which of you will need it."

* * *

All is ready. Kingsley has give me permission to host the meal in one of the Ministry's finest private dining rooms and the long table is set with the finest silverware which glow in the light of steady candles.

In the tall mirror of an antechamber, I present an image of cosmetic perfection. I appear to any eye a well-bred, well raised pureblooded witch, refined to the core. But my appearance is just as deceiving as hers was; and to add insult to injury, tonight I wear floaty robes of the daintiest shade of- pink. I have had to bear witness to her triumph dressed only in dour black, now she must bear witness to mine in similar apparel.

Dishevelled and disappointed, she still beams me the same patronising smile, which I return with equal sickliness. At the same time, we draw our chairs and sit down at opposite ends of the table, like duellers facing off against each other, in the War of Small Talk, where insinuations are the ammunition and courtesy the traitor. We sit down, alone in the room together and begin to eat.

She takes the first shot. "It is so _nice _to see you are able to celebrate your little achievements, my dear."

"Little? I would not define them so. You are gracious indeed, but you need not thank me. I would not have wanted to celebrate the victories of our courageous Minister without you."

She is still smiling. "How thoughtful. I am so glad to have been included in your _calculations_"

I am still smiling. "Madam Umbridge, you never were absent from them." I help myself to a piece of meat and dip it into some orange sauce. Having tasted it, I exclaim in delight. "Dear Dolores, you must try some of the poultry! It is absolutely divine! There is some to your left."

She is wary at first to accept my recommendation, but she tries some of the meat and thankfully finds it to her liking, helping herself to more throughout the evening. I myself have some more of it and we clear the platter of the animal.

We discuss further in measured tones the reforms of the Ministry and other dinner table topics and I find that I take a strange delight in reminding her subtly of my newfound power at any opportunity that is presented me.

Finally at the end of the meal, as guards arrive to escort her back to custody, I have my moment. My moment of revenge, that I have wept bitterly for the past eight years since I first felt the woman's poisonous sting. I have my moment to punish her, to put her down for everything she has done.

Finally, we reach the climax of our battle and reveal our hand of cards, our true colours.

"I have won, Dolores. You cannot think to beat me now. I am un- untouchable." I feel the beginnings of another bout and urgently cough into a handkerchief, holding it tight to my face even as the blood coats my chin. I see the flicker of triumph in her face at my pain. She thinks herself the cause of it, though I cannot think to remember why.

"I do not need to," she says silkily. "I have finished with you- and you."

"You are defeated," I reply stubbornly.

"It isn't over until the dame sings"

Now is the moment. Now is my chance.

"Do you refer to your last-ditch attempt to get me? To salvage your plans from the ruins of the battlefield?"

Her face blanches, revealing every line in its flab. "What are you talking about?"

"Your letter. The letter which has been shot down and read by everyone whom you called a colleague or a puppet."

She grips her spoon, almost bending it in her thinly veiled panic.

"And my owl?"

"The owl? Your last hope? You want to know what has become of your last hope?" I lean forward, relishing this.

"You've just eaten it."


	38. A Point of Happiness

The Healer carefully examines me, listening to my breathing and asking me questions.

"Any night sweats?"

"Sometimes." Sometimes coming to mean most nights.

"Loss of appetite?"

"Constantly."

"Feeling feverish?" My hospital robes cling to me and I begin to shake.

"As- as we speak." He frowns at something on his clipboard and flips over a page. "I understand that your family has a history of mental instability, most likely stemming from when your ancestor Agamemnon Rowle procreated with- his sister." He is a trained and professional Healer, but he cannot hide his disturbance.

"Yep. Usually we go for cousins, but he didn't have any old enough and duty called in the form of continuing the blood line and the family name so basically he did."

"You have been accused of showing minor signs of sociopathy."

I shrug. "Occasionally."

"Your Patronus has changed form several times?"

I shuffle slightly in my seat. "Yes. What of it?"

"It's a common sign of instability."

Despite having stumbled over my words earlier in this uncomfortable conversation, I am determined in one aspect: "I'm not mad."

"Didn't say you were. But if I am to make to a full diagnosis of your condition I must examine all relevant areas, mental health included. Will you allow me to proceed?"

* * *

The interrogation drags on into hours. Every aspect of my lifestyle has been scrutinised, I have to describe every detail of every Seeing I have ever had, which is noted down with the date of its occurrence and the date it refers to in my defiant attempts to prove to the cynical Healer that they are not mere hallucinations, which he finally is forced to see.

He leaves me waiting yet longer, with only anxiety for company, sitting on the side in my flimsy hospital robes, kicking my bare feet together in the dim light. In this lonely spartan appointment room I await my fate, while just down the corridor Healers are discussing and debating my condition, voices confidentially lowered. Not for the first time is my fate out of my hands, my future beyond my reach. I can only wait here alone and wait for them to tell me what they have to say, me imagining all the scenarios that could be.

The Healer returns after three hours of the unknown, holding his medical report with tense fingers.

"Marion," he begins. "I'm afraid it's not good news."

* * *

Kingsley's head is bowed over his desk as I enter his office, working intently.

"How did it go?" He asks without taking his gaze off his work.

"I'm dying," I tell him flatly. His quill stops abruptly, as if he has forgotten what he wanted to write.

"Ah," he says slowly. "I'm sorry to hear it."

Gingerly, as if I were walking on a rope, I walk one small step at a time over to the chair opposite his desk and collapse into it. I clench my teeth, holding back sobs. I will not break down, not in front of Kingsley and certainly not loud enough for people in the corridor to hear or know.

"I'm told it's called the Red Death," I say as conversationally as I can. "Because victims choke- choke to death on their own blood." I begin to shake, tears springing to my ears once again at the thought of such a horrible way to die.

"It is certain that there is no way to cure you?"

"None at all," I reply bitterly. "Usually these things can be cured by our _fine _medical establishment in a matter of hours but of course that requires immediate diagnosis and appeal to said establishment, ever so slightly impossible when you've been banned from even going near a doctor on pain of imprisonment!"

"The cough that didn't go away," he remembers.

Terrified that he will see me broken, I bury my head in my hands, fingers finding hold in my hair to stop them from visibly trembling.

"I could have had a hundred years." I gulp down a rising sob. "I could have outlived even you."

"Often in the shadow of death is the will to live the keenest." He observes. He does not come near me- not for fear of infection, that risk is going as my body gives up on trying to fight itself. He knows that a hug, even a pat on the back will just aggravate me further, reminding me of what I'm losing, what I never can have.

"I _want_ to live," I give way and cry, long wailing, gargling sobs. "I want every one of those hundred years. But I can't have them. I can't even live to see one more birthday. It's slipping away! Before I can even try to call it back. I'm- I'm broken!"

Kingsley remains silent.

"Who killed you, Marion?"

Confusion quickly replaces despair, anger following not far behind.

"What are you talking about?" I snatch a handkerchief and blow my nose. "I _told _you, if you bothered to listen. I got ill last year, thought it would go away and ignored it when it didn't. Then it got worse because I'm too pathetic and weak to get rid of it myself and it did so much damage that I'm beyond- repair. _Got it?" _I snap nastily.

"I didn't ask what," he explains, patiently ignoring my rudeness. "I asked who."

"How the bloody hell should I know?"

"Marion, you have lived your life on the battlefield, many different ones. Some inside your own head, some with those who have sought your death. But have you ever questioned what you were fighting?" I begin to answer but he cuts me off.

"No, I do not mean that in the sense of doubt. You have fought, just as I have, against oppression, hypocrisy, discrimination, corruption, hatred and evil. We have defeated them side by side, for now at least. But the victory is hollow for you. You have been ever on the watch for the evils that held hold of your enemies, but you were so concerned with watching your back that you did not look to the side, around you. In the end, you will not die the death of an Auror, riddled with curses in a back alleyway or in the destruction that battle entails."

I slowly begin to understand what he refers to. "War doesn't end with a ceasefire," I tell him.

"It wasn't a curse, that could be blocked. Your killer did not even need to raise a wand. All they had to do was sign a paper and cut you off from safety. They did not kill you outright, but they condemned you to death. You fought evils by my side, but it was not oppression, hypocrisy, discrimination, corruption, hatred or evil that killed you. It was something just as dangerous and often overlooked."

"Then what exactly was it?"

"Neglect."

* * *

_Draco_

_I have not always been to you what I promised I would be, but however I have displeased you, however I have failed, I have never intended to cause you lasting harm. My misdeeds, of which there have been many, were committed solely by myself. You know, as everyone does, the plans of Snape and Dumbledore during the war, bless their souls and you know, even if the world doesn't, my part in it. But the two of them didn't do the things I did to you, so even if you cannot absolve me, forgive them. _

_I do not know much of what you yourself did as a Death Eater, what use they put you to, but at least you can know that you need never do it again. Never again will your Mark burn, never again will you be chained to his side. Your life is now completely your own and I pray you will put it to a good use. I do not ask you necessarily to be a nice person, simply a good one. Because an ex-school bully has a lot more in them than you would think. I of all people should know._

_I remain as always your well-wisher and should you wish it, your friend_

_Marion_

_Please understand if I am unable to reply to you._

* * *

At the Ministry, my illness receives little comment. Every day, people look into my watery eyes, red from crying but they do not blink at me. They talk to me but do not hear the thinness of my voice or my rasping breathing. My face is sunken and hollow, but they still smile down the same smile at it. They shake my hand but do not flinch at the swelling in my fingers. Either they have subconsciously ignored it or they don't want to know. My illness, fatal to me is of embarrassingly little danger to them. At the first sign of sickness they can head for St Mungo's. It wasn't that way with me.

This goes on for just a few days as my panic as to the amount of time I have left (which the Healers estimated as less than six months) spurs me to leave the Ministry. The news is not well known, my absence will most likely go unnoticed. Perhaps those who passed me by or even said hello to me will not learn of my illness until whatever obituary I will have comes out. I don't talk to anyone about it, or even say goodbye, though when I leave the Auror Office for the last time, I pass Dawlish and I give him a big smile and a wave.

My last hour in the building that has changed my life so much is spent with Kingsley. He is the one person who could really help me through this. The people I trust and would have turned to for advice or help: Tom, Joanie, Albus, Tonks, Lupin, Moody, Emmeline, Sirius, Scrimgeour, Severus, Dobby- all of them are dead. Fred Weasley may not have been an immediate option, but at least he would have been able to make me laugh. I'm really fond of the Staffords, but I don't want to worry them and I think I might if I showed distress in front of them. So Kingsley is the one I turn to.

"Thank you for your assistance over the years, Marion. You have done good work and-" This is usually the point where most employers would say "I wish you all the best for the future" but those would be mocking words. He knows I have no future now. "and I hope you do not suffer any more pain."

Even now, when I am dying, I am still uncertain of asking a large favour of him.

"There is one more thing I would ask of you, as a friend who can help me"

"Tell me."

"I have a wish- to see Hogwarts Lake one last time. You say that the best death a person can have is at home. I know that it is a school, but it is the home of much of my happiness. I do not want to die alone, so far away from it. This is a ridiculous favour, I feel, a large inconvenience and I should not hope that you will grant it. But I want to die in my home- my true home. I want to die at Hogwarts, whether the school is open or not."

He thinks carefully and does not show any signs of agreeing or disagreeing. "I could only be able to let you stay there for a fortnight at best."

"Then I shall stay for a fortnight; and it shall be the best."

He stands and walks over to me to say goodbye, flickers of sadness showing whenever I look closely. "Is there anything more you want from me? Out of all the world, what does a dying girl like you want?"

"A little bit of courage."

* * *

_24th Jun_e

Three years ago today, I began this diary on the same day my niece was born. I should not like to end it now, on a note of sorrow. I shall find a point of happiness and end it then.

Tonight is my last night with the Staffords before I leave for Hogwarts and they have been taking good care of me. Benny made a really nice birthday cake and my hot water bottle barely turns lukewarm before it is reheated by a comfort-conscious Minty.

For all her observance, Adelaide makes no comment on my appearance. She sits by me at the table, or on my knee when we sit on the sofa watching a Muggle children's film called Sleeping Beauty (the neighbours are on holiday and have lent us the use of their television: I have been determined that Adelaide should grow up with a full understanding of Muggle culture and the best way to do this is to observe their art. This determination has not been deterred even when it took six hours to figure out how to work it and we put all of the plugs into all of the right sockets at last only to discover that the screen on which the film's pictures are shown was facing the wall and we had to start all over again).

At no point in the day does she let go of my hand for more than a moment.

I am lying on a bed in their spare room, virtually hanging out of the window, desperate for any passing breeze to catch on my feverish face when Adelaide comes in alone, holding something in her hand. She comes over to me, picks up my hand again and nuzzles in next to me.

"You are sad," she says with childish matter-of-factness.

"Yes," I tell her. "Sometimes I have felt very sad."

"Stories make you happy," she says. "So I bring a story." She holds out what she was carrying: a few sheets of paper, slightly crumpled from her tight little fist. Written on them in blocked printing are words that make a very short, very basic story.

"Thank you." I stroke her soft hair, which is longer than I remember and darker. I get up off the bed and slowly stagger over to my trunk, where at the bottom my first diary sits. I bring out the notebook and hand it to her.

"In return, I have a story for you."

She fumbles over the ribbon that holds it shut and then she opens it, her finger running over the Welsh words that are for now alien to her.

"What does it mean?" she asks.

"All that I am" I tell her as I gather her in my arms and embrace her for a few moments that couldn't feel long enough.

"Marion," says Minty softly. "It's time to go. They'll expect you at Hogwarts soon."

I kiss Adelaide goodbye and leave her sitting on my bed, still holding my diary in her hands. One day, she will read it and I hope she will understand.

I wind my arms around Minty's waist as we take off on her broom. I look down at the house as we climb higher, the lights blurring in my tired eyes. I keep looking down for it even as cloud obscures it from view, tear tracks freezing on my face.

I will never see her again.

* * *

We stop several times along the journey, to give me a chance to clean my handkerchief and rest. Minty says goodbye once we have reached the castle, stopping only for her to have a cup of tea. I watch her leave with regret. I have not always appreciated what a capable woman she is, I should not have underestimated her.

I am assisted by house elves in the days which follow, some of whom knew me through Dobby, some remember me from the Battle of Hogwarts. They are the best carers. I am not seen as a burden by them. On the contrary, the final stages of my illness produces quite a lot of mess which they seem more than happy to clean up. They walk with me through the grounds when I want some fresh air and listen with patience to my semi-delirious ramblings.

One day when they are serving me afternoon tea, I ask them to pour some for my sister, who will be joining me shortly. They say nothing, pour a cup for her and discreetly Vanish it when it is not drunk.

I spend much of my time at Hogwarts with ghosts. Not the Grey Lady or the Bloody Baron, but old friends. Joan plans my day with me over breakfast. My mother walks with me in the grounds. Tom tells me jokes over lunch. I read with Branwell, sew with Jaina, paint with Alysha. I hear Sirius laughing as I sip my tea, I catch Fred smiling as I pass a mirror and every night, as I tuck myself into bed, Albus reads to me in his gentle, steady voice.

* * *

_7th Jul_y

The sun rising is a beautiful sight in this part of the castle, peeping through the ruins. This is the one part of the castle which has not been rebuilt. It has been left as a reminder of the conflict it suffered, left to heal over time, the ruined walls accompanied by the easing blue of forget-me-nots.

Forget me. Forget me not.

It seems so strange, to be dying surrounded by so much new life. That I am breaking apart while they grow afresh. That my tears of my sorrow is the water with which they grow.

The light is still early as I open the door of an empty classroom. There are no people here, no lessons, not yet. But the learning still goes on.

Slowly, not quite sure what I am doing, I pick up a piece of chalk. Even more slowly, on the blackboard, I chalk an A. Then a B; and finally a C.

ABC. I stand back, replace the chalk and sit down one of the desks to observe my work.

ABC. Someone somewhere once decided that there should be an A, a B and a C. Who could have thought it would come to mean so much? Who would have imagined that three symbols would have so much power? The Deathly Hallows make a wizard master of death, but it is ABC which makes a wizard master of his destiny. In times of strife, times of despair and terror, it is not to the Hallows we turn. We go back to basics. We turn to ABC. In ABC we shall find the answers. The Hallows halt the end, but ABC marks the beginning. The beginning when we open a book and read the first page, when we put the tales of the past aside and make our future in the pages of our destiny.

I fought for those three letters. I was willing to die for them. When I die, I shall remember them. For if we forsake our A, B and C we shall truly be lost.

Today no ghosts visit me, no old friends with jokes or plans or stories. I do not eat, I do not drink and I rarely sit. I wander through the corridors, lonely as a dream, lost in what has been. I stop when I remember a memory for the place: the corridor where I upbraided Draco, the place where Voldemort's dead body lay.

I stop outside Dumbledore's old study but do not enter. I don't want him to see me like this, a sharp end to a brief life he had so much hope for.

I do not register the passing of the hours aside from the changing of the light. Finally, the light the forget-me-nots brought me slips away and I feel something in me slip away too. I climb the stairs to my room to begin to die.

* * *

At the landing I cough until my lungs burn with pain. But slowly, the pain fades leaving only exhaustion. Whatever happens to me in my sleep, I welcome my bed. I brush my hair and plait it, tying it with a white ribbon on a whim. My nightdress is soft and cool and does not stick with the sweat of the day. I open the curtains to my window, allowing the moon to beam over the tapestry I made which hangs on the wall opposite my bed. It shows Hogwarts, ruined but triumphant, silhouetted against the sunset. It shows my treasure and my triumph. A fine sight for a dying girl.

I ease myself into bed, feeling the comforting heaviness of the sheets, stroking the smooth quilt. I have been reading many poems over the past two weeks, speaking to me in a way they had not done before. Poetry is music that needs no instrument, the song from the heart.

I recite the words which speak _my _heart:

_And the bluebird sang_

_From above the tree_

_It sang for you_

_And it sang for me_

_It sang for the happy_

_It sang for the free_

_It sang for the hope_

_It so wanted to be _

My head feels very heavy as I set it down upon the pillow and my eyes close. I know this is a sleep from which I shall not be waking up. They tell me that tomorrow I shall go home. That is true. Tomorrow, they shall find me. I shall have gone home.

Curious things, people. We can be them our whole lives and still not understand them. They intrigue us, baffle us and challenge us. One preconception whipped away in a momentary action. Each one different, but in many ways the same. They can be loveable; they can be despicable. Capable of actions that are phenomenally clever, innovative, futile- or maybe some actions that can only be described as phenomenally stupid. Sometimes I could not tell the difference.

And this is how my diary ends; revelling in all the strange beauties of human nature, my place in it whatever I wanted to be. Glad of heart, to know it.

He stands there, blue eyes twinkling still with life. I run to him, not urgency in my step but joy. Then it is not him I see, but myself. Sitting by my riverbank, my book open, my mind open, my quill ready. Ready to tell another story.

And I know, even as I drift into sleep, that though my story is over, there are many more still to tell.

**MARION'S DIARY ENDS HERE**


	39. A View to the Future

"The Daily Prophet is sad to announce the passing of Marion Rowle who died last night after a short illness. Our thoughts are with her family at this sad time."

-The Daily Prophet, Obituaries, 8th July 1998.

On 14th July 1998, Marion was buried in the garden of her house in Tetreton-en-Fayre, Kent, not far from the riverbank after a short funeral in the local church. The Ministry of Magic made no comment on her death and the reaction of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, was unknown but he spoke at her funeral.

He served as Minister for Magic for over twenty years, working with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger in particular to reform the Ministry and make lasting changes to the wizarding world. On Christmas Day 1998, less than six months after her death, Child Internship was made illegal.

On Valentines' Day 2004, Thorfinn Rowle was found dead in his cell in Azkaban, of unknown causes. He was 59 years old.

In 2006, Adelaide Lucy Stanley attended Hogwarts School for the first time and was sorted into Hufflepuff House. She achieved good marks in her OWLs and NEWTs and specialises in Ancient Runes, which she hopes to utilise fully in her career as a magical historian.

* * *

Nobody knew who she really was.

She was slender and graceful.

She was shrewish and emaciated.

She had a beautiful smile.

Her eyes were grey and cold.

She was honest and generous with her time.

She was a calculating schemer.

She was naive and a gossip.

She was wise and noble.

She was foolish, irreverent and faithless.

She was deceptive.

She was witty and clever.

She was ignorant and ill-educated.

She was shamelessly blunt.

She was idealistic. She was cunning. She was devious.

She had a plain face and bad teeth. She was like a spider. She was loveable. The entire Ministry was afraid of her. Impossible.

_"But the greatest glory is not boasted of, not blasted out with trumpets. The greatest glory is the kind that flames inside, that does not fade when the celebrations are over and the players are dead. The greatest glory goes unseen, but never dies."_


End file.
